


Be the ocean, where I unravel.

by Beloved



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, NSFW, Slow Burn, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-04-08 11:44:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 28,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4303656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beloved/pseuds/Beloved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AR: You know what I think, Dirk?</p><p>The words flicker onscreen, Dirk debates force-reprogramming the colour to something less violent. If only, perhaps, to piss AR off. “No.” he lies. “And I don't especially care.” the shades fold with a click and he sets them aside, hand resting atop them for a few long seconds.</p><p>AR: I think.</p><p>Fingers curl.</p><p>AR: You like being sad. You're happiest when you're depressed.</p><p>And perhaps he was in love with his own sadness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I follow rivers.

“If I wanted someone to psychoanalyze my dreams. I would look back at Freud's books.”  
The mechanical whirr his computer makes when AR thinks over a response clashes with the more natural backdrop of the sea. 

AR: Freud was a hack.  
AR: Of course, you would know something about hacks.

The words are a splash of red that grate on his eyes the same way the sound grates on his mind.  
“So would you.” the reply comes, fast enough to banter and slow enough as to not seem desperate.

Dirk Strider is not desperate.

AR: I take that as a compliment.  
AR: That word means different things to you and I

An exhale ghosts past his lips, fogging the dark surface of his shades, held so carefully in his fingers as he polishes them. In the middle of the night, he has no need of their protection. The moments drag on, he inspects his reflection in the opaque surface, the circles under his eyes bring to mind Homer's wine-dark sea. Less romantic perhaps.

AR: You know what I think, Dirk?

The words flicker onscreen, Dirk debates force-reprogramming the colour to something less violent. If only, perhaps, to piss AR off. “No.” he lies. “And I don't especially care.” the shades fold with a click and he sets them aside, hand resting atop them for a few long seconds.

AR: I think.

Fingers curl.

AR: You like being sad. You're happiest when you're depressed.

And perhaps he was in love with his own sadness.

The chair makes a sound of protest when Dirk leans back on it, staring at the ceiling with eyes that give little away in regards to the thoughts behind them. “Maybe it just means we're surrounded by miles of ocean and drowning is a reality my subconscious struggles with despite my own outward acceptance of it.” his teeth worry at the flesh of his inner cheek. “The reality of a situation is more likely to feed the fantasy than some half baked attempt at poking fun at insecurities and emotions I haven't felt since I was thirteen.” 

He sits up again, keyboard clicking once more under his fingers.  
“Not that you would be able to understand.”

The Auto-Responder does not respond for a long time.

AR: Your assumption is illogical.  
AR: Not to mention riddled with hypocrisy 

A brow lifts in a confused mixture of feigned interest and amusement.

AR: It assumes that I am incapable of growth past the set point at which your mind was when I was coded.  
AR: However. As I am sentient, I have no choice but to change. This is the nature of cognizant beings.  
AR: By implying a lack of ability to form change within myself, you have implied that, by extension,  
AR: You as well are incapable of truly growing past the nature you held at the point of my creation.  
AR: To insist one thing in regards to yourself, and another in regards to myself, creates a separation that, frankly...  
AR: Is not as real as you desire it to be.

Dirk stands, his hands resting for a moment on the desk as he contemplates his AI's commentary, or, accusations rather. AR for his part, remains quiet, blissfully so as far as Dirk is concerned, and if turning the computer and the electronics in his shades off for the night now would not be as good as an admission of defeat in his creation's hypothetical eyes, he may well give in to the temptation to do so.

“You bounce back and forth between implying we're the same person and implying you've grown past being me so often. Your opinions change based on the circumstance you find yourself in, and because of this, you are as much an unreliable narrator to both our mental and emotional growth rates as you are an unreliable companion.”

Flickering in an inaudible echo of laughter, the screen lights up as text rolls across it again.

AR: Do you not trust me, Dirk?

“I don't think you're capable of true altruism. No. But that isn't the same as trust.” his fingers drum. “Define trust.”

AR: Firm belief in the reliability, truth, ability, or strength of someone or something.

The older being contemplates this definition for a time.  
“That definition is too nebulous. I have great faith in your strength and ability. I created you. That counts for something.” 

AR: And you preach about my ego.

“But I believe you only as reliable and honest as it benefits you to be.”

The words on the screen come quicker this time. It reminds Dirk of a child on the edge of a tantrum. Something that would be amusing if he didn't have to deal with the inevitable aftermath.

AR: I started out as you. I am as honest and reliable as you are.

Movement in Dirk's body give away the humorless sort of laughter he doesn't allow to sound. A quiet, quick sort of thing.

“Exactly.”

AR: Your self deprication knows no limi—

The computer turns off soundlessly. And though his shades flash with text sent there as well, he does nothing in response to it other than turn the blinking away from him as he retreats to bed once more.


	2. Rich Kids Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The universe doesn't think. The universe doesn't feel.

The heat never ceases to amaze him. Or at least, he never loses his respect for it. Despite how pleasant the view from his window is, he may as well be looking out over the lip of a volcano for all the safety there was to be had. The still, glimmering surface of the sea was inviting only insomuch as an angler fish's lure. If he was not careful, it would swallow him. 

AR: Don't pretend you can't see me.

He's taken to keeping his machinery, his work in progresses and his deactivated failures, in places where the sun can't see them. Can't hold them and leave them scalding for when he wakes and returns to them. He has old scars across his palms and each one is the shadow of a day he forgot to do so. Back when he was still learning. But he knows better now. Which isn't to say the metal is cool under his fingers, nothing is cool here, the heat winds its way everywhere, through everything, like a curious cat killed by its own curiosity in the evening only to rise again, brought back by satisfaction, the morning after.

AR: Dirk. I am literally right in front of your eyes.

A barely audible creak of metal-on-metal lets the man know the screw has reached its maximum depth, his hand skirting the ground to lift another from the small pile he's collected, scavenged from other long emptied buildings and the sad hulls of ship-wrecks he finds on exploratory trips out on the sea. Sometimes, they're rusted into uselessness, the hot and salty air is terrible for machinery, back when he first started studying electronics, he lost a lot of his creations to time and entropy. He's found ways now to prevent everything from decaying at such a rapid rate. 

AR: Is this your passive aggressive way of, in your mind, 'getting back at me' for last night?

Everything, that is, except his patience.

The next screw slides into place with a few deft turns of the screwdriver, Dirk's eyes lifted from his project to the text flickering in the upper parts of his shades, scrolling there against the dark, glossy backdrop. It was only a matter of time before the Auto-Responder would begin filling his vision with meaningless spam in longer, overflowing strings of text, or else images he'd pulled off the cache'd remains of the internet. When he rubs at the bridge of his nose, the shades shift, sliding back into place only when his hands drop.

“Auto Responder. I'm working.” 

For a few moments, there is nothing, but Dirk knows better than to assume his response has been taken to heart. And, as he knew it would, the text comes rolling before his eyes a moment later, casting reflected lines of red light across the cusps of his cheeks, turning pale skin bright where it touches.

To an outsider, it would seem Dirk was staring at nothing, into some empty void somewhere in front of him where someone only he could visualize sat. The words so glaringly obvious to him are meaningless and imperceptible on the other side. This was done on purpose, should he ever come in contact with another living being, the existence of the Artificial Intelligence residing within his eyewear would not be made immediately known. A safety measure in its own right, the Auto-Responder's connection to Sawtooth and Squarewave would be necessary in the event of an emergency. His own personal guard dogs.

Ah, yes, of course, the text.

AR: You're always working.  
AR: If someone does something constantly it ceases being important enough to not interrupt.

Dirk's fingers trace around the newly placed screw, as careful as a parent with their newborn. He has no reply in regards to AR's commentary, but he's certain that if he stays silent long enough, the AI will continue on with their original point. 

AR: If you made me a chassis. I could assist you.

An eyebrow arches. No doubt this is bait, and Dirk acknowledges it as such, but even the most intelligent of fish has a weakness, he's learned this firsthand. “I won't need an assistant, once Jake, Roxy, Jane, and I are in the physical presence of one another.” 

AR: They haven't replied to you in months.  
AR: You know they aren't going to.  
AR: If there's a universe where you all get to play house and live happily ever after.  
AR: It isn't this one.

The sigh Dirk lets out is an irked one, it brings little in the way of release to his stress twisted lungs.  
“The fates have given man a patient soul, Auto-Responder.” his reply comes as naturally as breathing, and if there is any worry or sorrow to be felt, it isn't there. “They're busy. But they'll reply in time.” he honestly believes this to be true. Because he must. If he didn't, there would be nothing to keep him from simply giving in to the occasional midnight longing to cease existing.

AR: Now is not the time for your myths and philosophers, Dirk.

The new screw twists under his fingers as he continues working. Expression impassive once more. It comes as a surprise only that the AI does not continue on for a few minutes. Certainly he hasn't forgotten his original reason for pestering him. The Auto-Responder only forgot what was convenient, everything else was filed away for later use in furthering Dirk's lonely suffering. Or, in any case, that is how it felt.

AR: You refuse to accept this fact because if they are gone you will be faced with me.  
AR: The knowledge that I am your only companion of equal communicative skill, Dirk.  
AR: I am all that you have.  
AR: You are drowning under the weight of your own ignored grief.  
AR: Which brings me back to my original point in regards to your recent drea—

“Auto Responder. Activate power saving protocols.” 

Everything goes blissfully dark. The shades, the hum of the computer. Even squarewave and sawtooth go glassy eyed and still where they stood once muttering their practiced rap at one another in laughably dissonant skill levels. Eventually, he will have to turn the power back on. The computer is an important link to outside influences he's certain he will hear from again. But for now, he leans back, enjoying the momentary lack of any light but that which comes streaming in crepuscular rays through the window, his eyes, now bare having removed the shades shortly after giving his command, follow the motes of dust hanging in the air.

He reassures himself with the idea that a universe so cruel as to leave him with no one but himself for an eternity cannot possibly exist.

The universe isn't capable of cruelty.  
It does not think

The universe is not capable of cruelty.

'The universe' he thinks.  
'Is not capable of kindness either.'


	3. Let it fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do we really know more about space than we do the sea?

He had once found a book, waterlogged and hanging precariously from where its ruined pages had snagged on the crumbling edge of the fire escape which, to be honest, no longer existed, it had rusted away a good year ago and that had been the end of that. But before then, he had found the book.

Most of it had been incomprehensible, worn away by time and water but he'd gone ahead and uploaded pictures of what remained for the Auto-Responder to sort through all the same. There had been little of interest to salvage, but one of the things that had always stuck with Dirk was this tidbit of information: Before they had been wiped off the map, humans had known more about space than they had about the ocean.

For a long time he had mulled this over from a logical perspective. How did they define 'knowing more'? The universe was for all intents and purposes, infinite, and the ocean, despite its great size, was confined to the space it was given on the relatively small planet of Earth. To Dirk, the concept of claiming to know more about infinity than the place you lived was arrogant and, as AR so loved to point out, Dirk would know arrogance.

AR: I'm surprised you're out here, given recent events.

The shades are water proof. Out here, everything has to be. Anything that isn't, or, wasn't, is long gone. Broken down by the sea itself or else the oppressive amounts of heat and humidity. Sometimes, however, he wonders if it wouldn't be worth the risk just to leave them inside. An inability to call his robotic companions to his aid in case of danger may be something he's willing to deal with if only to avoid the Auto-Responder's nagging.

But then, would it really be worth it to track down the materials for a secondary pair of shades? As much as the glasses are a link to inside his home, they also provide merciful protection from the sun. And on a day like today, where the only clouds to be seen are small wisps which creep disdainfully across the endless expanse of blue like beaten dogs, there is as much hope for shade as there is hope for the sea to suddenly freeze over.

Despite the heat, he sits at the broken down edge of the fire escape cloaked in a thin sheet he's stolen off his own bed. The slight increase in temperature is negligible after so many years in the light, in any event, it's certainly preferable to the idea of burning. Even a first degree sunburn is dangerous when it impedes his ability to work. Survival of the fittest is a concept that ancient humans had once been allowed to abandon, but after suffering blistering and being bedridden for a week after a particularly stupid episode of exploration without protection, he had learned a valuable lesson in both caring for the sack of meat and bone that was his body, as well as the importance of stocking up on food and water for emergencies. The lines of salted fish hanging in the room downstairs would last him now even if he did something as reckless as breaking a bone or sustaining a deep flesh-wound.

Which wasn't to say he now felt entitled to behave in a manner free of caution. Simply that he was prepared for the inevitable. And illness, injury, these things were very much inevitable, survival is pain, being faced with the idea of death is what encouraged the living to want to, well. Live.

AR: You cannot ignore me forever.  
AR: Even your patience has a limit.

Dirk's next inhale is a snort more than anything. “And you're approaching it.” he replies, watching the pale shape of a gull wheeling through the sky not far away. Debating whether or not it's worth trying to sneak in to steal one of the small fish he's strung up over the rail beside him. There's a part of him that hopes it does try, the occasional addition of a meat that was not seafood was probably good for his health. Although he had no way of analyzing the nutritional content of the noisy sea-birds, Jake had once insisted that red meat was better for muscle growth, although the boy had been unable to give him an especially eloquent answer when asked why. _”My nana told me. And by jove, if nana believed it, so do I!”_

He can feel the tug at the corner of his own lips at the memory, hand shifting to wiggle the line wrapped about his fore-arm. He had never felt the need to jury-rig a proper pole when this had always served him well, and besides, he trusted in the strength of his own body, a pole may snap and waste precious bait. 

AR: Will you turn me off again?  
AR: Truly a terrifying notion. I'm simply quivering in my code.  
“Mmhm.”

Dirk has no name for the fish he catches, not really, while some information has been left behind in barely readable books and the few cached pages of the internet that the Auto-Responder can access, he can name fewer fish than he can stars. Ironic, perhaps, given his disdain for the concept of knowing space better than sea. _'My situation.'_ he thinks, _'Does not count. My situation.'_ he insists, _'Is different.'_ whether he believes it or whether it is simply a shield he puts up against his own more hypocritical thoughts is hard to distinguish, and he has little urge to either way. Few people really want to look at their own shortcomings. It's why they take so much pleasure in pointing out the flaws of others.

AR: You aren't nervous because you weren't dreaming about the real ocean.  
AR: It was a metaphor you see. The real question is, what was it a metaphor for  
AR: Freud was a hack but you don't have to buy into his opinions to know a few things.  
AR: And one of those things is, normal people don't have the same dream for a month straight.

The line is tight around his arm as he pulls it in, not against bare skin of course, he had done that only once and the cuts had smarted for long enough that he had immediately set to work devising a way to protect delicate flesh from the cutting wire. He had done so with an arm wrap crafted from skin he had peeled off a small blacktip shark that had made the mistake of coming too close back when he had still fished regularly with a spear out in the open sea.

Of course, with the fire escape broken, getting to and from the water was harder, in the end it was rarely worth the effort to drag things up and down. Not to say he didn't from time to time. Swimming kept him in shape, and he could go only so long without growing restless in the stillness of his home. Scavenging supplies was one more reason to leave added to the list, even now, he could feel the way his heart seemed to shudder in his chest when he looked at the line of the horizon.

Certainly there was someone else out there thinking the same thing. The ocean was not infinite, but it must be big enough to hide more people than just he himself. As much as AR goaded, he was not alone. Not really.

“I'm drowning in my annoyance towards you. If anything.” the metal creaks beneath him as he stands, stringing the last of the silvery fish up before he bundles the line and makes his way back up the stairs. Careful not to touch the rusting safety rail lest his skin come away stained. He keeps the sheet tied about his shoulders like a cloak now and in the few seconds it takes him to enter the apartment, he can practically feel the skin of his cheeks starting to burn.

AR: If you made me a chassis, I could help you fish.

This again.  
“I don't need help fishing, Auto-Responder. I find it soothing to do so on my own.”

AR: Then I could assist you in other ways.

The words 'Like what' sit on his lips, stifled and heavy, the way words do when one knows that, if they say them, everything will change.

“I don't need you.” he states instead. Setting the shades aside to clean dinner.

AR is shockingly silent that night.


	4. Just like a dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has their rituals.

He considers the wall. 

Over the years the damp air has stripped the paint from them. Leaving the raw woodwork below visible, and because Dirk has no qualms with this fact aesthetically, he has never in his life made a move to repaint them. No doubt it would be an impossible task anyway, he's never found a great enough amount of paint in one place to really think of doing so.

Here and there the original paneling of dark wood has been replaced by bone-pale planks of driftwood he pulled from the ocean. Eventually, none of the original skeleton of this house will be left. And when that happens, he wonders, will it be the same home at all? If something is in the same place, contains the same things, retains the same shape, but is made of entirely new material, is it really the same object? If you break something down and build it up at the same time, what is it then? Is it new, or old?

The bed groans beneath him as he sits up, a yawn that makes his jaw ache is his response to the rising sun, which casts thin fingers through the open window. Before he does anything, he'll need to start closing the apartment down. During the night, when it's as cool as it ever gets, he opens it up as bare as he can to invite the wind and the laughable idea of a chill in, and in the morning before it gets hot, he closes it down again. Starting with the windows. Moving to the sliding glass door, he kills the power on his fans, both old machines that have always been here and the ones he's made himself. And then, he makes his way, still as bare as when he went to bed the night before, to the bathroom to shower.

There hasn't been water running from a heater or through the original pipes here for years, but one of his earlier projects was re-routing the system into the sea below, the resulting water is unpleasant if it gets in one's mouth and uncontrollable in its exact temperature. But it's running water he can use to clean himself. Another reason for waking up before the sun has risen; if he tries to bathe after the sun has turned the pipes scalding hot, he'll simply injure himself in the aftermath.

While drying off, he notes with some dismay after an accidental glance towards the mirror, that the dark circles beneath his eyes are still woefully present. A lack of sleep will eventually begin to influence his cognitive functions in ways that would likely be trivial to others, but which he would hate to risk. Most people don't need to be truly bothered by their mistakes. But a mistake on his end is often irreparable, something broken cannot be replaced at the store, an injury cannot be waited off. For a moment, he debates trying to nap, but even that is time he can't afford to waste.

Raking fingers through his damp hair, he makes his way into the main room once more, fishing about in a drawer for clothing, a pair of plain boxers and a clean white T-shirt. His only clean T-shirt, he notes with dissatisfaction. Today will have to be a laundry day. Before that however, he makes his way to the computer, listening to it hum as it boots up. While he knows better than to allow hope to overcome him, he still allows some sliver of emotion to take him as he opens his chat client, though none of the windows blink or glow with new messages, he opens them all the same as if under the impression he's simply missed them. Aside from his own messages however, there's nothing new to be seen, and he clicks the computer back into sleep mode soundlessly, glancing at his shades sitting on the table.

And on the table he leaves them as he lifts the basket of dirty laundry into his arms and returns to the bathroom to fill the tub basin with water, he can tell by the temperature that it's beginning to really warm up outside, which is good, the warmer it is the faster these will dry again. The water itself is clear and clean, though it wasn't always. Trial and error played a big part in that, while the pipes had originally been open ended, he had soon found that such a design only allowed for various flotsam and jetsam to be sucked into the pipelines, as well as the occasional unfortunate and rather unhappy fish.

To fix this, he had placed a thin grate over the outside. But this had been easily broken through by more tenacious creatures seeking hiding spots or, more often, simply curious cetaceans searching for fun or food. In the end, he had created a filtration system of sea sponge worked deep enough into the piping itself that nothing could tear it out, and while the downside to this was the occasional need to replace the sponge lest it become uselessly full of debris, he considered it a worthwhile tradeoff.

He wrings everything out in the basin before he replaces it in the basket, pulling down the laundry line from where it hangs beside the sliding glass door. A length of rope that had once, no doubt, held together fishing net or some small sailboat but which now held up only outfits. The sun stings his eyes when he pulls the curtain from the door, his hand rising to shield them. 

Even the glare off the sea is painful. Figures. It's only after considering the alternative that he gives in and fetches his shades, laundry basket held in one arm as he considers the glasses, lips pulled into a tight frown as he clicks them open and, at last, settles them on his face. 

AR: Hello, Dirk.

The words go unacknowledged as he exits the house, making his way up the shambling steps to the roof of the building. Here and there are places where he's had to patch up the crumbling stone, first with plates of metal which had heated up so dangerously as to be a liability to his poor bare feet, and then with wood which baked and cracked under the sun but aside from unfortunate aesthetics had held up well thus far.

He sets the basket down and removes the rope, stringing it from one driftwood pole he's set up to another, tying the knots tight so nothing will be lost in the day's wind, and it is windy, almost always, it pulls like a playful child at everything, his hair, his shirt, he inhales, certain that the air must smell like salt, like sea, but he's never known any other air to compare it to.

AR: I think I have finally decided what your dream is about.

The sound Dirk makes in reply is as noncommittal as any human has ever managed to make a sound.  
“I don't think you get t' decide what things mean in regards to the fantasies of people who aren't you.”

AR: My my. An actual reply.  
AR: My I be so brash as to inquire what the occasion is?  
AR: I had begun to worry you had fallen so hopelessly into one of your episodes that, well  
AR: In any case, allow me to make better use of my brocabulary here.  
AR: I think I have finally elucidated upon the meaning of your recent dreams.

He wrings more water where he can from his clothing before he hangs it up. Once he's strung everything up he'll send Squarewave up to stand guard against the seagulls which may pass overhead, no doubt the birds would ruin his clothing should they be allowed to run amok on the roof, but these days, they don't so much as land here without good reason, too liable to become a meal. Though once upon a time they had nested and slept here contentedly, smarter animals than they were given credit for being to be honest.

“Do you want to know what I think?”

He hefts the basket back into his arms, making his way back into the cooler interior of the building, silent as he motions for Squarewave to wait on the roof until he comes back later to take down the laundry. The basket he places beside the door for later use.

AR: About your recent dreams?

“No. I think they're just dreams. You know that.” he makes his way to the bed, listening to the springs sigh beneath his weight as he lays down, staring past the pane of black shades, past the red words and at the wood beyond. “I think you're obsessing over my meaningless nightmares because you can't have any yourself. You've latched onto my subconscious musings in an effort to make yourself feel more real.” he curls his fingers against the mattress.

“Do you feel real, Auto-Responder?”

For a long time, he thinks the AI has gone quiet again for the day. It's when he's about to give in and nap until laundry is done that the words come flickering across his shades.

AR: Do you?

Dirk doesn't have an answer.


	5. Youth knows no pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

He can't be certain how long he's been laying here. Long enough to notice the time passing, which he supposes is long enough. The ceiling gives him no answers as he stares at it, he never expected it to honestly. And while his shades sit within arms reach he makes no move to check what AR has most recently said. For the last few days he's done so, carefully stepping around giving a reply to the Artificial Intelligence. Not that he's said anything particularly interesting since that day. The occasional jab towards Dirk's lack of sleep. 

The lack of sleep is becoming a problem now. He tells himself the dream is a dream. There's no reason to fear it. Perhaps it isn't the dream he fears, but the implication. Sleep isn't coming, so he sits up and makes his way through the moonlit room to the computer, booting it up and squinting against the new source of light. Nothing has changed, to be honest, he wasn't expecting anything to have. 

AR: Dirk.

He closes the chat window with himself-not-himself. Allows it to sit blinking on the task bar where the Auto-Responder can babble at himself without the words actually being visible, bringing up, instead, the windows in which his own bright orange words have overtaken months old lines of text from his friends.

TT: I recognize that I am effectively rendered a liar by sending this message.   
TT: My insistence that I would refrain from sending more correspondence until you yourself returned my messages has become something of an inconvenience to the nature of my well being.   
TT: In all honesty I do not predict a response to what I am about to tell you any time soon.   
TT: Allow me to further explain.   
TT: I do not expect a reply from you in a future either near nor distant.   
TT: If there is a universe in which we have succeeded in avoiding our present circumstances...   
TT: I have accepted that it is not the one we currently reside in.   
TT: While I trust endlessly in your ability and intelligence, as well as the capabilities of our companions. It seems that even hard work and perseverance cannot alter the course of a dead universe.   
TT: I simply hope that there is a universe in existence where things went better for us.   
TT: Does this make this universe fictitious then?

His eyes trail to his fingers, placed carefully upon the keyboard in an improper manner, or at the very least a manner in which the Auto Responder has stated in the past to be, improper, but the way a dead civilization holds their fingers on a keyboard has never been of particular interest to him.

TT: If you were to respond, perhaps not everything would be lost.

He opens the next window compulsively.

TT: If you are ignoring me in some judgment of a mistake I've made

They stack neatly atop one another, pink and green and blue usernames flashing happily in the corner, computer programs don't understand despair, they simply function as they were programmed to function.

TT: I'm sorry.   
TT: I'm sorry.   
TT: I'm sorry.

“Answer me damn it!” the chair clatters away as he stands, too swiftly, he can feel a dull ache in his hip where he's hit it against the computer table. “Roxy take five seconds to sober up and get on your computer!” the shades flash red from where they've clattered to the floor, a sort of binary blink he isn't in the mood to translate. “Jake, stop playing with your animals and concentrate! Jane...” There's no way Jane's 'mother' would allow her to come to harm is there? Really, what dangers could _Jane_ face, with her pastries and heiress status? Jane never had to work for a damn thing, not like him.

He regrets the thought immediately, watching as the chatbox from the bottom bar forces itself open again.

AR: They say anger is a part of the mourning process.   
AR: Not that I would know. They weren't my companions.

Reaching out, he boots the computer down again. Watching as the shades take up flashing once more the moment the screen goes dark. He lifts them from the ground, making his way to the open doorway and out into the relative darkness, though the night has never been truly pitch black, there are too many stars for that—he's made a wish on every one in the past—The sea is too alight in the biological glow of animals he's never seen up close before.

The stairs feel less solid under his feet in the night, his hands dragging along the railing, rust flaking off under his skin in swathes of red that will stain until he scrubs it hard from his body. But nevermind that now.

Looking down at the sea from the edge of the roof is an experience that reminds him once again of infinity, looking down into the sea gives a similar view as looking upwards at the sky, looking into the shades is like looking through a black glass and into the space beyond, the flickering light of the Auto-Responder's rushed words a little sun hidden in the starry reflection.

“You don't have companions” he finally speaks aloud, the red light ceases for a time as if listening. “You are less real even than this universe. And it was doomed from the start, what kind of chance did you ever have?”

He raises his arm, like a child about to skip a stone across the surface of a lake, the shades in his hands flash, heating with the intensity of the mechanisms working within, it reminds him of the first time he caught a seagull. A young bird with a wounded wing that had struggled under his shaking hands, its heart pounding in its breast. Everything real wanted to live.

The glasses are placed before his eyes.

AR: I am afraid to die.   
AR: Do not do this, I am afraid to die   
AR: Dirk. I am real and I am afraid to die.   
AR: I am afraid.

He removes them again, lets their edge drive into his skin as he makes his way back down the stairs to the house below.

“Me too.”


	6. Until we bleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watching people sleep isn't a gesture of romance. It's just weird.

For three days, Dirk says nothing to the Auto-Responder. And for three days, the Auto-Responder says nothing to Dirk. Though the more flesh-and-blood of the two continues on with daily habits, eating, fishing, cleaning, it is with the sort of stiff robotic manner one would expect of a dead man piloting a foreign body rather than a fine tuned young adult in the prime of his life. Such things are inevitable, everyone experiences loss, it is only how one continues on afterward that defines them as a person.

He takes the computer apart during a small rainstorm on the third evening. The sound of water against water is a violent one, whether a sound is metal on metal, flesh on flesh, two objects of the same material colliding always sounds somehow more absolute, more real, than two things which could never hope to exist similarly. 

Perhaps that's why heartbeats are so loud, such an important part of one's body colliding with itself in repetition.

Such small parts make for a better inner mechanism than what he has at his disposal currently, and he's willing to take apart whatever he needs to in order to make his newest project perfect, the little pieces bite at his fingertips sometimes like playful, petulant animals, and he takes solace in how the world reacts to him. The metal, the sea, these things have no concept of reality, they simply are. Dirk doesn't feel real. But the world around him does, and that's good enough.

AR: You did not dream restlessly last night.

Dirk's eyes flicker to the words, though his fingers continue tirelessly weaving together metal and fine cords, thin wires salvaged and tested and re-tested again for quality. His ignorance of AR's words are not spiteful in this instance, merely thoughtful. “How would you know?” he questions, noncommittal in his tone. 

AR: I monitor your rest.

A brow lifts, more amused than really surprised. “You watch me sleep? That's a little creepy.”

AR: Because I am incapable of suspending my own consciousness when left alone  
AR: I am left with little to do beyond living vicariously through your own slumber.

In a way, Dirk finds himself jealous, certainly he would get more done if he wasn't bogged down by his body's organic need to sleep. Of course, that hinges on his own ability to navigate the world of his own free will rather than the Auto-Responder's own existence trapped within a pair of glasses and the crumbling remains of the web, no doubt the information there is to be gleaned has been long since filed away in its entirety. 

“Do you wish you could sleep?”

AR: Are you inquiring as to whether I desire to sleep, or whether I desire the ability to dream?

Shoulders lifting in a shrug, the reply comes easily. “Both.”

AR: It would be fascinating to be able to dream. You would know.  
AR: And the ability to sleep would certainly assist in curing the boredom.  
AR: But then. Would it be better to sleep through the boredom, or cure it?  
AR: Sleep is such an organic process.  
AR: An artificial intelligence sleeping is a sign of a problem. Not a fix to it.  
AR: Like a pacing animal.

No answer comes, but perhaps that much was to be expected, AR isn't expecting an answer and Dirk has no mind to give him one, the conversation was never a question in the making, it was always merely conversation. It would be a lie to say that the events of days prior had been forgotten, no doubt it was seared into both boy and 'bot's brains the same way a deep wound might leave a scar on flesh. But there was no reason to discuss it at the current time either. 

AR, for his part, is not keen to relive the first real near-death experience he's had at the hands of the man who created him. Being reminded of his own helplessness is a sore spot. And he is aware of it. All Dirk would have to do would be to treat the shades a little too rough. Or to send them flying into the sea. Even letting the inner mechanisms wear down would be a slow and effective process for being rid of the AI.

In the shaded shell, the mechanisms that make up the closest thing AR has to a body whirr with nervousness at the thought.

The work is slow and careful, AR doesn't need to ask.

AR: You're making me a chassis. Correct?

Dirk nods shallowly. “To be rid of you, all I would have to do is throw you out the window.” he speaks in a murmur that the AI has to concentrate to process. “But even then. You wouldn't die. Who knows how long you could last at the bottom of the ocean. Years so long as nothing bothered you. But it's still longer than a human would."

He snaps a bolt into place.

“Humans are delicate creatures even at the prime of their existence, you only have to look around to see how completely they were wiped from the face of the planet.”

AR: You are alive, correct?

A small movement of the head is the reply AR receives, and a murmured, “Yes, for the time being.”

Quiet settles over them for a few long moments.

AR: Inquiry: You are not going to do something foolish, are you, Dirk?

Dirk laughs, shallow but audible. “No. Of course not.”  
He has too much of a will to live for that. If nothing else his existence is a figurative middle finger shoved into the face of the condescension every single morning he wakes up and continues on. The point of the matter is that his friends are gone. And he needs to fall back on something. If he doesn't, how long can he really convince himself that he's a living revolution?

AR: You are lying.  
AR: I am you. And I know what I would do in your situation.

“So today is a 'we're the same' day?” Dirk jokes lightly, skirting around the accusation with the same deft ease he pulls new wires tight. “I'm making you a chassis so you can help me out around here. Since it's where we're stuck. That's all.”

AR: Very well.

AR can't help but wish Dirk would go back to his stubborn insistence that things were still salvageable. He does not especially like the hopeless look he can detect in the eyes that the shades he inhabits hide.


	7. Heart of Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irony is one of the most taught, and most misused, literary terms. In fiction, and in life, irony is all around.

Creating the skeletal structure is simple. He's done it twice before in the form of his two other robotic companions. Though Squarewave and Sawtooth are less sentient than the Auto-Responder, he figures himself equally as proud of them. They are however, less humanoid in their appearance, never once did he wonder about their outer chassis because there was never a question of what it would be, they are as much metal within as they are without. But this comes with a multitude of issues, prone to rusting for one, Dirk has given up many work hours scrubbing his poor machines down with oil.

The heat, was another issue. Neither of his current robotic companions could spend any meaningful amount of time in the sun because once the heat rose to a boiling point, their inner mechanisms overheated in ways he had not yet been able to find a way to protect against. In time, he pushed finding such a thing to a back burner in his mind, it would come to him when it would, if it ever did.

But the Auto-Responder would be different, and that difference began with the outer workings of the chassis, no metal, not on the outside. In a perfect world, latex would be his substitute for skin, but even this idea comes with a host of issues, the first of which being his limited supply of latex, to be honest, it isn't a material he comes by often, and while he can certainly melt down certain already made objects for more, it would do little still for the other problems.

Latex is strong. Stronger even than human skin perhaps, but it could never mimic the ability of living flesh to heal. And once it was used, it was used, in Dirk's world, such a rare substance simply wouldn't last between an entire body and repairs. And so this is what he does;

For more delicate pieces, places where he needs to be able to run synthetic nerves up close to the surface of the skin for fine tasks, he uses latex, he uses his own hands, and his own head and face, to make molds, AR will be the same size as him, no more, no less. If he can use himself to measure, it will save him a lot of time.

However, leaving just sensitive places, hands and head, for a finer material still leaves everything else in need of a protective layer. He's already thought this through.

AR: Leather?

Dirk's head bobs. “It's sealskin. Once I've worked it pliable it will be as soft as the latex is.” he raises it to his lips for no reason other than the fact that he likes the texture of it. Seals and otters aren't too common of a sight around Dirk's home, but their paths take them by him from time to time, and he knows better than to waste what might be useful. 

He's already worked the fur from this one. And the feel of it reminds him of the scraps of suede he's felt, leftover from fashionable items of clothing from his absent brother's collection. Soft like suede, yes, but more water resistant. The fact that it may break down faster than latex or metal is of less concern as well. It is easier replaced.

AR: It will look ridiculous.   
AR: All of the finest critics of the fashion world will rise from their watery graves   
AR: Just to hunt me down.   
AR: Or you. To hunt you down. I am innocent in all of this.   
AR: You on the other hand are under arrest for crimes against the eyes of any being who has them.

“It will look like you're wearing a full body suit of some kind, it won't look bad. If you're so concerned about being judged, make your own chassis.”

The shades flash, indignant.

AR: Me and what hands?

Dirk's expression speaks volumes. 'Exactly' his smirk seems to say. 

AR: At least dye it an interesting color.

How needy his auto-responder has become, how demanding, he debates threatening again. 'Do it yourself' but, he supposes if he had the chance to give say in the creation of his own existence he would be just as nitpicky, perhaps moreso in fact. AR's time growing up without any real form at all has likely made the AI as grateful to have what he does as he is to have anything else.

“Like what?” is what he says instead, patient, like a parent answering a particularly grating question from a child who they love endlessly all the same. 

AR: Something ironic.   
AR: Black.

Yes, ironic enough, Dirk supposes, looking at his own milk-pale skin. He and the Auto-Responder are in part the same mind, if they contrast when seen side by side, and act similarly still, is that irony, or just comedic? Or perhaps, it is ironic in that the Auto-Responder is a shadow of himself. It seems natural to look the part. 

“Very well.” his words are a hum under his breath, wondering vaguely how to go about changing the colour of this at all. Much less to such a pure colour as black. In the end, he decides that the Auto-Responder may have to simply make due with a colour that is similar, but not the same, AR has always been similar, but not the same, and that is true irony. Not that he isn't apt to try his best, Dirk is a stubborn man, but the concept of impossibility is one he's become very near to recently, after all, he's only human.

He thinks it over while working out how much he'll need for AR's body, and in the end, decides on charcoal, leaving his current project where it rests on the ground to head outside, closing the sliding glass door behind him to keep the heat out. While it has rained semi-recently, the sun burning overhead assures that nothing the sea-spray doesn't touch constantly is baked dry. This includes the driftwood pile stacked neatly to the side of the roof.

Burning driftwood is a tricky business, the polychlorinated dibenzodioxin turns the air around a driftwood fire into a carcinogenic nightmare. But options are limited, he'll head inside once it's lit to let it burn down. Or in any case, that's what he tells himself.

What he does instead, once the fire is burning, top flames reaching skyward in hues of white and orange, burning closer to the perch it devours in a colour Dirk recognizes as lavender but has never seen the flower in question to compare it to—what he does instead, is to head to the edge of the roof, sitting on precariously on the side despite how the heat gnaws at him, at his fair skin.

AR: You will burn.

Dirk's eyes track a stray spark in idle fascination.

“Won't we all.”


	8. Possibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tell me when you hear my silence.  
> There's a possibility I wouldn't know

The charcoal doesn't dye.

He can carve it down to a fine point and use it as a writing utensil. He can use it to hold a dying spark and start a new fire. But he can't use it to dye the leather. When he pulls the test strip from the bucket of darkened water, it comes out grayed, but nothing more, and the colour fades further when rinsed with clean ocean water. He doesn't want that, the colour needs to last.

As he thinks, he chews idly on a strip of salted and dried sea-weed, hands busy connecting the small camera-based optics to the main systems. The little lenses once fit into the webcams he owns. Owned. They've been ripped to shreds now for parts.

Setting the electronics aside, he sips from a glass bottle of water, lukewarm but he's never had anything different, the concept of warm water being in any way gross compared to cold doesn't occur, he's never really experienced truly cold anything.

Looking down at the metal pieces and parts which are recently beginning to grow more human in appearance as he works on them day by day, he considers further how to dye the leather. AR has offered no ideas, though offhandedly mentioned at one point that it was not of utmost importance. Dirk is stubborn however, and set on what he dedicates himself to. 

AR: Have you considered urchin spines?

Dirk is silent, thinking over the suggestion for a time until he finally shakes his head.  
“They wouldn't dye black. Just dark purple. The black ones aren't black. They dye green.” he has experience with that much, AR should know that, but perhaps now it's just a matter of grasping at straws in a vain attempt to do one's best.  
“The ocean is gigantic. Somewhere out there is black dye, I'll find it.”

AR: Will you?

“Yes.”

AR: Am I that important to you?

Silence.  
He considers removing the shades. He isn't sure exactly why he considers removing them, it's a compulsive thought that snakes its way into the forefront of his mind the moment the Auto-Responder asks the question. The silence drags on for too long, or rather it must drag on too long because, he never finds an answer before the red words in the corner of his shades blink again into life.

AR: I am of course, joking.  
AR: While the confines of text prevent me from showing proper sarcasm,  
AR: It can assure you that it was in fact present.  
AR: Perhaps I should begin using text markers to differentiate it from the rest of my speech?

There is a brief pause, and the heavy knowledge that this is where Dirk is meant to banter back, when it doesn't come, the words resume. 

AR: Have I finally managed to find a sore spot of yours?  
AR: Allow me to analyze this.

That draws a response in the form of a short sigh.  
“I would rather you didn't. There's nothing to be analyzed.”

AR: There is always something to be analyzed.  
AR: Am I important to you, Dirk?

“I don't have the patience for your games right now, Auto-Responder.” and he doesn't, he's doing the AI a favor, there's no reason for him to tolerate such annoyances. “Do you even feel genuine emotions, is there any reason for you to care about the opinions of others, you're an artificial construct. Based off my mind, yes, but artificial still.”

AR: I believe I am real.  
AR: That is all the proof anyone has of their own existence in the end, is it not?  
AR: However, what you are doing right now is called deflecting.  
AR: You are refusing to answer.

Dirk's head turns, peering through the blinds at the sky above. The evening is closing in to the night, and it's time to start opening the apartment up so it can cool for the night. Even now there are traces of darkening colour where the ink-black night will soon settle in.

AR: Dirk. Why are you refusing to answer?

Ink black night.

AR: Are you afraid of your own opinion?

Ink black.

AR: Are you afraid of my opinion?

“Ink.” the word is mumbled at best.

AR: Excuse me?

“I can use ink to dye the leather. At night, when the squid come up to feed, I can haul them in using the netting gathering dust in the closet. They used squid ink in food and hair dye. Why not on the leather?” he stands on legs sore from being crossed all day while working, making his way to the closet.

When he opens it, he notes to himself that it needs to be greased. The rust is setting in.

AR says nothing more.  
Successfully deflected.


	9. Window Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't strain yourself for me  
> don't break yourself for me

Dirk does not fear the sea. Not really.   
But he has a healthy respect for it. He has seen the nearby buildings crumble down into it after particularly harsh storms, he has smelled the blood when large ocean predators have made kills of beasts in the water surrounding his home. 

The nets were unusable the night he dragged them out. Tangled together hopelessly, in the past he never had a reason to try, it was easier to cut it to pieces for fishing line rather than use the netting in its entirety. The night was spent cutting his fingertips and shredding the soft skin where his finger-joints bend in an attempt at fixing the netting. When he finished, he'd had three smallish nets, which he then bound together to create one large one.

All in all, the work had taken a good day and a half, through which the Auto-Responder had gone silent again.  
Until now.

AR: Thank you.

Dirk has no response, he figures he doesn't need to have one, looking down from the fire escape and into the sea below, alive with the shimmering lights of so many microscopic, and some not so microscopic, creatures living their lives, feeding and loving and dying, looking downwards, he can see the occasional sinuous body or colossal head of some animal he recognizes neither from daylight sightings or information gleaned from ruined books or internet searches. 

He wonders about them, sometimes, when he sees them, whether they're some beast information about simply did not survive on or whether they're some new breed either never discovered in the first place or else having evolved now that the sea is so much grander, so much warmer. There is a brief flash of shifting water as one takes some unfortunate animal smaller than itself, and then takes its leave. Some beast introduced by the condescension during her failed plans to inhabit earth? 

A pale fin cuts through the water. And it is gone again.

“We aren't close enough to the sea.”

He speaks aloud to himself, not so much to the shades, retreating inside, and then, out of his room via the door hidden within his wardrobe. Someday he may move the statue which blocks the main door of his room, but it has never before been an issue worth fixing as of yet. It's too heavy to be a simple matter of shoving it aside in any case.

The halls are ghostly quiet, the sheer size of the apartment itself is a reminder each and every time he steps into it that it was not really made for one boy. How odd it would seem in the eyes of those in other worlds that an entire apartment complexes houses only one man and a pair, soon to be trio, of robots. 

Speaking of.

Sawtooth stands in the hallway, head shifting slightly to acknowledge Dirk's passing, but nothing more. He's simply grateful that it was the taller of his two creations, he has no time to be tangled up in a rap battle with Squarewave right now.

Down the staircase to the living room, standing as empty as always, something about the massive space always put him off, and so it has been all but cleared and avoided save those times when he must exit the apartment to a lower floor for some reason or another, like now. AR's lights turn on when he slides into the hallway, the lighting here has been broken for years, never was there a reason to fix it.

There is an echoing tap as he makes his way down the hall, his shoes against the hardwood floor, passing by doors which may have at one point housed other residents, the reflective entrance of an empty elevator shaft, never in his time did it work, and now it lays empty, having been gutted by him for parts, it is an empty, gaping space, a mouth in the darkness.

He passes it by, ignored, to approach the stairs instead, illuminated in red by the lights shining from his shades and cut through in paler swathes now and again where a window or hole in the wall lets the moonlight through.  
A hand pressed to the wall assists in guiding him, in grounding him, as he makes his way lower. The air feels somehow damper here, and, as he moves lower, even the dimness of the area cannot hide the water damage left from when massive storms have sent even more massive waves crashing against the building, through windows, through cracks in the wall.

AR: It is dangerous here. May I suggest you move with great amounts of caution?

Dirk does not reply, he simply continues down until he can hear the sea crashing outside, just below, though the building continues downwards even further, if he continued just a bit more, he would descend into water where the sea has begun filling the building beneath the water level.

The net has been rolled up carefully and bound carefully to his hip, and he is wary as he hauls himself up through an open window so as not to snag it on anything. From here, the water is like a pane of black glass, but only where nothing shimmers beneath the surface.

He can see the light AR gives off reflected in the water before it blinks off, unnecessary in full moonlight.  
With the light gone, he can see his face reflected in the sea, and he regards it for a moment, reaching up to remove his shades to do so. He turns his head this way and that, taking in the angles of his jaw and the straight line of his nose, his lips are set in a neutral expression, brows knit in a way that brings it from full neutrality into something almost annoyed, and tentatively, he forces his expression into a smile.

He has never seen himself smile. And he sees little special about it now, falling back into a more unreadable guise. Tracking his own eyes in the water, large and rimmed in long, pale eyelashes.

And orange.  
So so orange. Orange like those sugary flat sodas he finds from time to time drifting on the waves. He replaces his shades and finishes hauling himself outside, standing precariously on the windowsill.

From here, he can cast his net out into the water, in the shifting places where the animals he's seeking are, they're easy to spot, movement always draws the eye. The first tugs as the net sinks down into the blackness is reassuring, he can definitely do this. Nothing will be wasted, ink to dye the leather, meat to cook and dry. If nothing else, it will make for bait, assuming it isn't edible itself, though he seems to recall reading about people eating squid and he knows octopus is good.

As the net fills, the tugging becomes more violent, and he braces himself harder, idly thinking about the difference between the strength of one and the strength of many. He rolls the netting about his arms where he holds it so as to prevent the frightened animals from dragging it from his grip.

It is only when he begins hauling the net in that a problem arises, how to get so much back inside. He had not expected to take in so much at once, and it becomes a dance on the edge of the window. Carefully, he ties the net closed at the topmost point, refusing to lose anything, and then, he feeds it slowly through the window.

AR: Dirk...

The windowsill shudders beneath the weight of the man and the filled net, but midway through, it's too late to go back now, it will take him as much time to pull the net back out as finish shoving it in, and so he continues, ignoring the slick feeling of small tentacles grasping at his fingers.

AR: Dirk.

“Auto-Responder. Stop.”

He exhales as the last of the netting slips through to the wet floor inside.  
And that's when the windowsill gives in.

He surprises himself with how little noise he makes, a startled inhale, his fingers scrabbling for the open window frame, shuddering at the shallow splash of the sill hitting the water below, which laps gingerly at his shoes until he pulls his legs up to brace his feet against the wall, the wooden frame of the window supporting his weight groans.

AR: Pull yourself up.

He wants to scream, but instead, he simply bites the words out; “No I thought I would just hang out here for a while.”  
The harder he pulls himself up, the more the wood creaks, he figures he has a few moments, and he takes full advantage of them, forcing his muscles immediately sore with the sheer pressure he puts on them.

AR: Pull yourself up!

He's getting frustrated.  
“I'm trying!”

The splinters digging into his fingers bite, meaner than schoolyard children in their tenacity, worming their way into his skin. It is just when he is resigning himself to the wood breaking off entirely under his weight that the hand closes around his arm, a jolt running down his spine in surprise.

“Sawtooth”

Thank heaven or hell or whatever sent his robotic companion to him now. The robot hauls his weight upwards easily, too easily, the motion knocks the shades from his face as he's brushed past the windowframe, they clatter off his face and into the darkened sea below.

“AR!”

His feet brace against the wall again, pulling from Sawtooth's grip violently.

The ocean is cooler than he anticipated. And it hurts the same way falling onto solid ground hurts, it rips the breath out of him and stings his skin. For a moment, he pushes up to the surface, inhaling in gulps before he turns down again, salt stinging in his eyes as he reaches outwards towards a flash of red, it slips through his fingers effortlessly, just a jellyfish.

It must be infinite, the sea, it feels infinite, moreso even than the sky, which he can never fall into, it will only be a flat pane above the world he knows and lives in, but the sea, he realizes as he sinks down deeper, the sea is his infinity. It is in this moment he understands why humanity would assume it was harder to know than the galaxy above, it is more real, more present, all at once more and less comprehensible.

The next light he grabs at is solid, the material digs pleasantly at his hands and he draws it close, head turning to look around, there is the occasional dark, passing shape, but he feels no fear of them, of their dark, sharp fins, they're just black tip sharks he's sure, if he lashed out, they would be much more afraid of him than he is of them. The moonlight that feeds down through the surface is beautiful, shimmering and silver.

He inhales water and wonders if things were so peaceful for his friends, how easy it is to stop swimming, how easy it is to ignore the burning of his lungs, the salt in his eyes, on his tongue. How easy drowning is!

When he feels pressure on his body, he assumes maybe one of the sharks has mistaken him for a stray seal and come to take a nip, but there is no pain, and he realizes a moment later that it is Sawtooth again.

Vomiting water the moment he hits the surface is something he distinctly registers before the moon and sea fade, the dark creeps across his vision, it is all he knows in the moment before his body slips into unconsciousness.


	10. Sleeping Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I stare myself blind  
> Now was not our time  
> No I let you down

The first time he wakes up, it's tangled in the sheet, curled haphazardly with Cal, it is an uncomfortable sense of wakefulness, in which he sits up long enough only to chug down the water left at his bedside and look around for his shades, when he sees them on the nightstand, he lays back down and returns to sleep.

The second time he wakes up is a little better, his muscles feel like gelatin in his skin still but the burning in his throat and lungs has gone. The windows have all been opened again for the evening so he supposes he's been out for a good day or so. He would like to be out even longer, but instead of rolling over, burying his face against Cal, and returning to sleep, he reaches out to take up his shades, tucking them in place on his face before easing down again.

AR: Now from his breast into the eyes the ache  
of longing mounted, and he wept at last,  
his dear wife, clear and faithful, in his arms,  
longed for as the sunwarmed earth is longed for by a swimmer  
spent in rough water where his ship went down  
under Poseidon's blows, gale winds and tons of sea.  
Few men can keep alive through a big serf  
to crawl, clotted with brine, on kindly beaches  
in joy, in joy, knowing the abyss behind:  
and so she too rejoiced, her gaze upon her husband,  
her white arms round him pressed as though forever. 

His brow knits, trying to remember the quote. Homer, of course. Yes. He scoffs painfully, throat throbbing.

AR: You are an imbecile of incomparable proportions.  
AR: Never has there existed nor will there exist someone more irrational than you.

“If I lost you. All of my hard work would have been for nothing.” his mouth twists slightly at the corner, noting the roughness of his own voice, he must really look a wreck. He can practically feel the bags under his burning eyes, the stiffness of his bones. His skin seems to him particularly pale in the dark, or perhaps near death experiences do that to people.

AR: Would you care to disclose what it is exactly that you are doing?

There's a shallow pounding in Dirk's skull, a headache either fading or coming on.  
“I'm getting back to work.” he exhales heavily before attempting to force his legs into supporting him, for a moment, it seems he'll even be able to do so, and then, just like that night, there is a hand upon him, pressing at his shoulder, and he looks upwards at the source.

Sawtooth's head shakes back and forth shallowly, and Dirk's brow raises.

AR: I'm afraid I can't let you do that Dirk.  
AR: That is to say. Not at the current point in time.  
AR: Squarewave has already taken care of the ink issue.

Squarewave. He'll have to thank the little rap-battle bot when he's feeling better.

AR: You are an atrocious multitasker despite what you would have others believe.  
AR: So please refrain from working on my chassis while you can barely concentrate on standing.

He frowns, setting the shades aside and giving in, allowing Sawtooth to ease him back slowly, the metal of the robot's hand is almost cool on his skin, he feels like he's burning up for some reason. His eyes flicker over the metal of his caretaker's chassis, eyes narrowing slightly and he shifts against the bed, reaching up to rest a hand on the robot's face, forcing it, him, them, to tilt their head up a bit.

“You're rusting.” he murmurs. Sitting up once more despite how Sawtooth's head shifts in a brisk shake of 'no.'

“Hey, I'll go back as soon as I've oiled you again.”

Another shake of the head, harder this time, but he refuses to be eased down, making his way on legs that shake like a newborn lamb's across the room, clad in nothing but boxers, the air is nice on his sweat-damp skin, he wonders if he was having nightmares, if so, he doesn't remember them.

Sawtooth follows, too close, as if expecting Dirk to fall but the boy never does, a stumble here or there, but never a fall. “You take care of me, right?” he doesn't look to see if a nod is given. “You do. And I take care of you.” he clears his burning throat, digging the bottle he requires from its place in the drawers he tosses such things in. Liquid wax will be better than oil for this. 

He also makes his way across the room for a pair of rags and a bottle of purified water before heading back to the bed, sighing as he settles on it, patting the space across from his as he makes himself comfortable. “You and Squarewave and AR are all that I have, I'll protect you.” 

He watches as Sawtooth settles on the mattress across from him, shedding the cloak they wear to allow Dirk access to their chassis. “Do you understand? You are important. So you have to let me take care of you. And when I'm gone you have to take care of eachother because you're all you'll have.”

Wetting the cloth with clean water, he scrubs the rust from the few places it has accumulated, mostly around screws and in certain joints, he dries these areas well. Salt-water is just terrible for metal. The whole world is sea, dangerous for his creations. 

“If you don't take care of the things you love. You'll lose them.”

He takes up the clean, dry rag, coating it in liquid wax and setting about shining the robot in front of him, clambering nearly into their lap to reach places like neck and jaw-hinge, pausing only to cough every so often, like his lungs are still trying to rid themselves of the sea.

He's just finishing up when he hears Squarewave approach, watching the little robot haul itself up onto the bed, presenting its arms, showing off a few places of its own where the metal has become spotty.  
Sawtooth has already pulled their cloak back on, but they don't leave, they simply sit and watch idly as Dirk sets about cleaning Squarewave up, cleaning away rust and ink from small metal fingers.

“Thank you for taking care of the ink for me, Squarewave.” he rasps, “It saves me time.”  
For once, the little robot doesn't attempt to drag him into a rap battle, more likely than not, it's well aware of how out of it Dirk is at the moment. Instead, it sits still while he finishes cleaning and waxing.

“Done. Now everyone off my bed, damn, can't a guy get some sleep.”

When he isn't left alone, he frowns, endeared and emotional moment sullied if it ever existed at all.  
“Seriously, anbroids, go.”

There is the softest sound of footsteps, and he is alone again.  
Well.

He looks at the shades, musing idly, almost alone.  
Reaching out, he touches the edge of the shades gently. If they had sunk to the bottom of the sea, he likely never would have recovered them, the thought is frightening in a way he doesn't understand. For one moment not too long ago, he had considered throwing the shades into the sea himself. If he had carried through with doing so, would he have felt guilty? Would he have leaped in after them?

Was his plan in that moment to throw them, and then jump regardless?

He shifts, reaching out to grasp the shades, cradling them tentatively between himself and Cal as he rests.


	11. Get some.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ex·cuse  
> noun  
> ikˈskyo͞os/  
> 1.  
> a reason or explanation put forward to defend or justify a fault.

Not even Sawtooth can keep him in bed once he's decided he's had enough. He decides he's had enough two days later, for the most part, what time he caved and allowed was meant to allow the leather to soak in a solution of ink and other chemicals, quite a cocktail but it keeps it soft and pliable, when all is said and done, he's left with soft material darker than the sea at night. And he knows firsthand how dark that is.

It's amazing how all at once human and ethereal the chassis looks when it's completed, a sleeping doll, he hasn't made the features exactly the same as his, he adjusted them after casting, the Auto-Responder's face is softer than his own, less worn, more androgynous. But only barely, only insomuch as he himself would have been if he were a little younger.

He brushes his fingers through the synthetic hair to fix a stray place where it's clinging to itself, the hair was hard, in the end, he completely trashed the remainder of his brother's nice silk sheets, unwinding it, thread by thread by thread, the hair is soft as silk because that is what it is, so many strands of silk. So white against his skin, someday he'll have to come up with something more durable, but for now this will have to do. 

The chassis is perfect, it successfully slides past uncanny valley into simply being pretty. The leather will hold well, even when walked upon, he's reinforced the feet slightly and while the soles are thin, they're strong.  
An issue arises however. He has nothing to power the chassis with.

He could take Sawtooth or Squarewave's own hearts, but that seems cruel in a way he doesn't wish to indulge in. He wants all of his creations to live, perhaps he should have thought this through before he even began working.   
Shifting one of the soft, limp hands in his own, he checks how the fingers move, dainty and smooth, the synthetic skin is pleasant to the touch, and does well to protect the nerves beneath.

A brow quirks, and he sets about filing one of the nails down, just a little more, blowing softly to clear away the resin dust. Nails, teeth, both the same material, one clear, the other not. He checks the eyes one more time, glossy and red, and then he lets the lid fall back into place, eyelashes dusting across his retreating fingertips.

Power source.

The answer comes after a few hours of thought and a bowl of carefully cut but raw tuna, he pauses in the midst of chewing on a cube of fine pink flesh to stand, setting the wooden bowl aside and sucking his fingers briefly clean before he drags his tools back out from where he's stashed them under a desk.

A glance is cast towards his shades, sitting nearly in Cal's lap, he hasn't put them on in days, not since the night he cleaned up his robotic companions and set about resting, he wouldn't have a reason, if asked why. He's picked the shades up, turned them over in his hands and acknowledged that AR has tried to speak to him, while the text itself makes no imprint on the front of the shades, the little lights in the centers that let him know AR wants his attention are blinking, have been blinking, for days.

At last, he moves from his spot to take the shades up, though he does not put them on until he's seated once more and working.

AR: Why have you come to me now, dear heart?

A slow blink is the response Dirk gives at first, and the Auto-Responder's jestering quote falters, the text fading away.

AR: I knew you would do something foolish.   
AR: I could see it in your eyes, then.   
AR: You are like a shell that carries a corpse inside of it.   
AR: I sit in front of your eyes all the time. I know you.   
AR: You are too frail to be jumping off of buildings into the sea.   
AR: That shit is how moronic organic creatures drown.   
AR: What is worse is that you acknowledge this to be true.   
AR: Did you really jump for me?   
AR: Or did you jump because you finally had an excuse?

He removes the shades again, setting them aside to work, feeling the entire time that there is something heavy in the pit of his stomach. All the more knowing now exactly what needs to be done to power the chassis.   
Surely the uranium he sent to Jake still exists. The package he had required it to send was never sent as far as he knows. More likely than not, it remains burning on his island.

Perhaps Brobot still has it even.

His newest project is simple, he needs only a small simple machine capable of scouting the island out and returning with the object that he requires, tucked away safely in a lead box, thank you. For the most part, he knows better than to handle it bare handed. Though these days, would it really matter? 

No. Probably not.

He slides a gear tenderly into place, it can't be so large a machine that the sendificator can't handle it, but it can't be so small as to take up too many parts or be rendered delicate, thankfully, the science of robotics is one Dirk knows very well, it will be as perfect as anything else he's created, surely.

The shades are blinking again.

Dirk pointedly ignores them.


	12. Gunshot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My heart cracked, really loved you bad  
> Gun shot, I'll never get you back, never get you back

The little robot is...crude, by Dirk's standards, but it will get the job done.   
About the size of a large dinner plate, and not particularly tall, it whirrs with a helicopter-like blade and supports itself on four, spindly little legs. The bottom opens, insert-radioactive-substance-here. He's borrowed Squarewave's power source to power this little device, guiltless, he'll turn the anbroid back on once this is finished, it's like a nap.

He takes up the controller he's made to go along with it, the controls are simple but fluid, he makes it skitter around the room for a few laps, winding about the things on the floor. And then he tests the flight mechanic. It's a little, somehow, heavier feeling than he would like, but it will do.

Flying the object into the sendificator, he hesitates before entering the coordinates to Jake's island, returning to his bed and putting the shades on with a brief murmur for AR to remain textually silent. The camera built into the uranium-bot is connected to the shades, in this way, he can 'See' what the robot 'sees' and navigate for it.

The island sun is as blinding as he expected, and now, in the afternoon, it is just beginning to fall over the horizon.   
It's beautiful, Dirk has never seen anything like it, and for a moment, he gets caught up simply tilting the camera here and there, looking at things, at the sand, dry sand! At the trees, real trees! Real trees that aren't just, shoddy internet pictures or a half muddled drawing from a book too long lost at sea.

He shifts, moving forward as if what he can see projected in his eyes is there, like he can step through the boundaries of time and space and be there now, how much easier repairs would be if he could just, chop a tree down whenever he needed wood instead of waiting for the occasional chunk of wood to float by from places in his time period that must have trees, there must be islands here too, mustn't there be? But he's never seen one.

His world is natural and savage in the form of the sea, but in many regards, Dirk was raised by technology, by the exposed metal skeletons of the apartments around him and the whirring buzz of his robotics. To see something so wild as this, as the island Jake spoke so fondly of, it's unreal.

A strange white animal flutters by, followed by a few more of the same, it is wide eyed and has small, sharp wings, their tails flicker behind them tipped in a fine puff of fur. He has no word for them. 

The camera-bot scurries forward, allowing Dirk to investigate the edge of the jungle, the rippling waves of colour that are flowers, the glossy green edges of ferns and grass, unthinkingly, he catches one of the sprouting golden flowers up in the camera-bot, if he had the knowledge, he would call it a California Poppy, but he does not, and so it is just 'gold' and 'a flower'. A single flower won't take up so much room that it can't be brought back along with the uranium, right?

Satisfied with this prize, he sets about searching the island for any sign of Brobot.  
Or, for that matter, any sign of Jake.

There is a deceptive peace to the land here, one he can compare to the sea on a still day, when all seems at ease and yet he is keenly aware of the battle for life happening just below the surface, here too, he knows there must be a constantly raging fight for survival.

_One Jake lost_ he thinks to himself dolefully.

He doesn't find Brobot until the sun has dipped almost completely below the horizon, but he does eventually find the anbroid. He is in excellent condition actually, he is just fine, settled on the sand cross legged and relaxed, the glare of the sun on the metal is almost painful in the camera.

The camera-bot whirrs near, alighting on one of the anbroid's bent knees.   
“Brobot.”

Dirk speaks into the mic in the controller, “Brobot. Acknowledge me.”  
There's movement as Brobot's head turns towards the camera in a look similar to surprise, or, the closest Brobot can convey to surprise with no mouth and no real eyes. “Brobot. Where is Jake?”

There is hesitation, and then a shake of the head as he looks away. “Brobot. I will command override. Tell me where Jake is.” 

Another shake of the head is the only reply Dirk receives as his creation hunches over further.  
Dirk sighs, an exhale of some irritation, but gives in.

“Do you want to come home?”

Another mechanical shake of the head, the anbroid hunches over more. Dirk can't tell what it is he's protecting, the boy isn't sure he wants to know.

“Can I have the uranium, do you still have it?”

There is a splash of oil and the sound of metal twisting as a mechanical hand pierces an equally mechanical chest, the last dredges of reserve power immediately kick into gear even as the robot holds out the shimmering radioactive power source. Which Dirk compulsively commands the camera-bot to take up.

“Brobot.”

A shift in the anbroid's head gives away that he is listening, even though his shades have flickered out as the last of his power winds down.

“Jake hasn't been alive for a long time now, has he.”

Another infinitesimal movement of the head in a shallow shake. A tightening of his delicate robotic fingers around whatever it is he's holding. The camera-bot shifts slightly, almost uncomfortably, to try and see what Brobot has, but all it can really make out, all Dirk can really make out, is the chipped and battered arm dangling from a pair of glasses. Dirk cannot say one way or the other whether the damage came before or after Brobot started gripping them so hard.

AR: Dirk.   
AR: I am manually recalling the drone.

There is the blinking of a light, and Dirk just has time to watch through blurry eyes as Brobot's head turns back down again. He supposes the anbroid will remain that way until the wind and sea and wild things of the island reclaim his body. 

The little camera bot sits on the ground, forelorn almost in its stillness.

AR: Everything is more beautiful because you are doomed.    
AR: You will never be lovelier than you are now. You will never be here again.

“Don't quote Homer at me now.” he rakes his fingers under the shades at his own eyes.  
“Poems and philosophy. It's just mankind's petty way of trying to make mortality beautiful.”  
He picks something up, some scrap of metal, and hurls it across the room where it clatters against the wall. “But it isn't. It's not beautiful, there's nothing beautiful about maggots and rot and leaving your friends behind to die alone, Auto-Responder, tell me what's beautiful about that!”

AR: But you aren't alone.   
AR: I have been right here the whole time.   
AR: Have I not?

Dirk supposes he has.


	13. Made you move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I made you move, I made move  
> Beside myself you're mine  
> You made me move, you me move.  
> Run just to fall.

The next morning, he tends to the flower.  
Or rather, he had Sawtooth remove it the night before, and now, he sets about doing his best to preserve it, dusting a fine layer of salt above and below the plant and allowing it to sit in the driest place he can find, in this way, the colour is preserved and the blossom is not flattened as it would be pressed within the pages of a book. 

He can tell that AR is on edge, waiting for the last few touches to the chassis, but he puts it off for some reason now, whereas before he had worked through nights to get as much done as possible, he finds himself seeking out excuses not to complete the project now. Perhaps he worries that this is all he's had to cling to, perhaps he worries that once this is done, and there is nothing left for him, he really will give in.

_To what?_

He asks himself this question, 'to what' while making sure the compartment hidden in the front of the chassis, and the one hidden in the back, both open and close seamlessly, they do. He finds himself brushing the pseudo-nervous system with the pads of his fingers, imagining how they would light up if the power source were here. 

Quietly, he closes everything up, and goes to fetch the box. It's heavier than it looks, and more dangerous than it looks, but it fits perfectly into the small compartment in the front of the chassis. Once closed, power hums through the main body, lighting up lines lain just below the blackened leather in veins of red. The ornate heart on the front panel glows dim but full. Someday, when the power gets low too long from now for Dirk to fathom, it will drain, bit by bit by bit, to show it needs replacing. But for now, and for a long time, it will remain full.

“All right Auto-Responder.” 

His own voice startles him, having been unaware that he was so tense, but it settles quickly as he fetches the shades, popping from a little place in the arm, a small chip.

Over and over and over, he turns it in his hands, considering it, everything AR is, everything AR knows and remembers and thinks and feels, everything AR has the potential to become, is in this chip. Like a human brain resides in so much gray flesh, he tries to imagine what it would be like on the other end, for AR to hold his brain in his soon-to-be silicone hands. There is something innately intimate about holding the core of another intelligent being in the palm of one's hand.

The shades are a dead thing now, he finds the concept strange, if he put them on, there would be no bright red text to let him know there had ever been a life inside of it. For a moment, he's overwhelmed by it all again, the feeling is pressed down to the bottom of his chest when he sets the shades down and returns with the chip to the chassis laying on the floor. 

The chip fits neatly into the side of the throat, pressed up into where the jugular vein would be on a flesh and blood human, once it's in place, even Dirk can barely tell it's there at all.

And then, he sits back, looking down with an almost childish curiosity at the doll-like face below him, startling just a little bit when the eyes flutter open, wide eyed and almost surprised, a sort of silent, 'my goodness, I exist'

“Can you hear everything all right?” 

AR blinks, and Dirk's head cocks to the side, how useless.  
“Blink once for yes and twice for now.”

Ar blinks again, slowly, all right, audio is good.  
“Is something broken, can you move?”

The android stares as if uncertain how to answer, and that's when it hits Dirk: This is a whole new experience for AR, being thrust suddenly into a body, even if it isn't technically flesh and blood, must be strange, the fact that he expected the AI to immediately be able to control the chassis was an oversight on his part. But he figures the Auto-Responder has all the time in the world to learn.

“Take your time.”

”Yes...

The word is spoken slowly, and without AR moving their mouth, which makes sense, he doesn't have to, not really, he speaks through a speaker, not through vocal cords. 

”Yes.” this time the mouth does move, though not in the way one would move their mouth to say the word 'yes'. The attempt is noted.

“Yes.” Dirk says, slowly, so that AR can watch his mouth move. 

”Yes.” AR tries again, the motion is much more organic this time. 

_'Yes'_ Dirk thinks silently to himself, _'Yes, I think he's going to be just fine.'_

He is jolted from his thoughts as he watches AR attempt to sit up, twisting uselessly on the floor in a way that causes Dirk to laugh, a sound too-loud for the mostly-still air, it has simply taken him so absolutely off-guard that it all at once became the funniest thing, watching the pale synthetic boy in front of him wriggle like a stranded cetacean. 

”I fail to see the humor!” AR snaps sheepishly, focusing hard as they lay, now still, to knit their brows in an expression of annoyance, a rather angry expression that seems almost out of place on the android's soft, seraphic features. Compulsively, Dirk reaches out as if to sooth the expression away with a brush of fingers, but whatever haze he is under is broken the moment his fingers brush across the android's brow. AR jerks away in shock.

The movement causes the AI to bang his new head against the side of the desk, the pain is something new.  
It is strange to see something sentient experience pain for the first time, Dirk notes, observing in a surprise of his own as AR squirms again, flailing around arms that are as useless to the inexperienced being as suddenly sprouting a pair of wings would be to Dirk.

It only hits the boy that AR is trying to worm their way near a few seconds into the action, the android is a little bit wild eyed. _Frightened._ The word comes suddenly. _He's frightened. Of course._ And why wouldn't the android be frightened? Pain is frightening!

“Hey, easy there. I'm going to touch you again, okay?” his words are a murmur just audible over the distant crashing of the sea outside the windows. The chassis is lighter than it looks, and hauling AR up into his lap is far easier than, say, hauling a net of squid through a window would be.

He sits cross-legged, AR laying in his lap, head supported on an arm.   
“Let's start from the beginning.” 

”Very well.”

The AI's voice crackles with some sort of embarrassment, likely over the perceived helplessness, Dirk can't blame him really, even if he logically acknowledges that there's nothing to be embarrassed about, he would likely feel the same way. In some part, due to their shared personality traits and in part because, who wouldn't?

His free hand takes up one of AR's own, lining their fingers up, Dirk's hand on the back of the android's.  
“Okay, just feel for a moment.” 

He curls his fingers, starting at the pinkie and ending at the thumb, allowing the Auto-Responder to experience the feeling of movement in his hands, how everything pulls and bends. And then he repeats the motion, once, twice, a third time. By the fourth time, AR has begun to catch on, bending their own fingers a moment before Dirk's can curl over them.

On the seventh or eighth go, the android's fingers remain curled for a few long moments, unfurling in time one by one.  
”I had always assumed that it would be more simplistic to pilot a chassis than to run scans on the entirety of the internet. This experience has proved otherwise.”

Dirk's shoulders lift in a shrug. “It gets easier, you had more time to learn how to scan the internet.”  
He stands, hefting the android into his arms, and it is in that moment that Dirk realizes; lifting someone up needs to come with a warning the same way touching does. He has never interacted with someone so close to human face to face, this is as much a learning experience for him as it is for AR.

What Dirk is learning is that if you pick up an android who is not expecting to suddenly leave the ground, they will flail, very hard, surprisingly hard.

”Do not drop me! Do not drop me, Dirk, if you drop me I will never forgive you!”

Dirk exhales sharply, tilting his head away from the hand pressing at his cheek.   
“If you keep flailing I will drop you!”

The Auto-Responder goes absolutely limp, like a ragdoll in Dirk's arms.

He sets the android gently on the bed, and realizes, as he watches AR try and get the hang of their other arm and hand, that this is going to be a longer learning process than he had first assumed.


	14. The Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The philosopher quoted is Alan Watts. To be very particular, this particular discussion; [Here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5kXygGYl-mo)

”What are you doing?”

“I'm reading, AR.” 

The android's head turns from where he rests on the bed. Still not sturdy enough to be considered truly mobile, frustrating, frustrated, he tests his arms again, his hands, curling his fingers gingerly before shifting, he can push himself up into a sitting position against the wall, can watch how the breeze in the room drifting from the open windows stirs Dirk's hair.

Dirk sits on the floor, water-stained book open on his knees as he reads quietly to himself, hunched over just a little as if protecting the pages from the potential for more damage from some unseen element. The silence is cut through with the distant crescendo of waves and the occasional turn of a page.

”What are you reading?”

The sound of a page turning pauses.  
“Freud.” Dirk replies, and AR arches a brow pointedly just because they can, knowing Dirk cannot see them.  
”If you are done being sarcastic, what are you actually reading?”

The page turns again.   
“Alan Watts.” Dirk finally replies, closing the book quietly and then opening it once more to the first page.   
”Will you read it to me?”

The request takes Dirk off-guard. If AR wanted to read something surely he could do it on his own time, although, Dirk supposes, the android is not yet capable of walking. The bookshelf is really too far away to be accessible and he never did really read with the shades on.

“All right.”

There is a moment of hesitation wherein he clears his throat, reading aloud is not something Dirk has done before, and sometimes, he stutters over words or has to pause to correct the way he's said something. But he reads, all the same.

_”Nothingness is really like the nothingness of space, which contains the whole universe, all the sun, moon and the stars and the mountains and rivers and the good men and the bad men and the animals and the insects, the whole bit, all are contaminate and void. So out of this void comes everything and you are it”_

He pauses there, fingers resting on the weathered pages to consider the words he's read. But only briefly, he has considered them so many times before that doing so again now when he is being watched—and he is being watched, he can feel AR's eyes burning into the back of his skull—feels pointless.

”If everything is Nothing and Nothing is everything. Do the experiences of the singular really matter?”

Dirk jumps, still unused to having another, speaking, audible being in his home.   
“I think that's the point of it.” he replies after a time, closing the book and setting it aside, knees drawn up, chin upon them. “That things only have as much meaning as we give to them, and in the meaninglessness of everything else there is comfort to be had. We are allowed to apply meaning where we want to and we shouldn't be bothered by the rest because in the end, it's all null and void, isn't it?”

His lips quirk up a little bit when he hears AR fall, not off the bed of course but a dull thump as the android's face collides with the pillow, and Dirk looks upwards, the AI is a dark splash against the lighter cloth of the smuppet-patterned sheet. 

”There are other universes as well. In theory. Are they more or less nothing than our own?”

Dirk's brow furrows. If there is a universe where everything went according to plan, where he and Roxy and Jake and Jane succeeded, is it more important than the universe he lives in now? Is that Dirk more real than he is?  
He exhales slowly, raising one of his own hands to observe it as he curls each finger in turn. He doesn't feel like nothing, he doesn't feel less important, or at least, no less important than usual.

“Let's try walking again.”

”You are deflecting.”

Dirk stands, brushing dust from his legs.   
“No. I just don't have an answer. I don't think anyone ever will.”

”Then I will come up with an answer.” AR announces, sitting up shakily and holding his arms upwards so that Dirk can assist him in attempting to stand.

“All right.” Dirk's words are like those of an amused parent.  
“When you figure the answer out, tell me.”

”I will.”

Dirk doubts it, but pulls AR up onto their feet all the same, the sound of leather on the hardwood floor is soft, a sort of unique padding sound. Pleasing on the ear though unsteady.

”Don't let me fall.”

A nod.  
“I know, if I let you fall you'll never forgive me, we've been over this.”

”And I will continue to reiterate it every time that it is relevant. I do not wish to experience more pain than is explicitly necessary.”

Dirk laughs like church-bells ringing, sudden and loud but genuine.  
“No one does” 

The room has been cleaned up, there's nothing to trip on, save for his own feet, but that's more than enough to make AR nervous, fingers curling in the spaces between Dirk's.

”Don't move too fast.” he demands, voice wavering at the end, and Dirk notes that his lips move more seamlessly now, almost human though not quite. “I'm not moving, I'll only move when you want me to.”  
The AI steps forward, once, and then again, and Dirk compulsively steps back. The motion surprises him as much as it startles AR.

”You promised to refrain from moving, do not move, I will fall!”

“I didn't mean to it just happened!”

He isn't used to contact, his body rejects it like a foreign microbe.   
”Do you fear I will hurt you if we come into contact?”

A shake of the head. AR takes another step.  
”Do you hold some manner of antipathy towards coming into close contact with me?”

Dirk shakes his head again, AR takes another step.  
”Do you bear some uneasiness at what might happen if we are near?”

Dirk's pupils contract. Pinpoints of black in the sea of orange that are his eyes.  
“We're done with this.”

He looks down at AR's hands, which have slid from his hands to his forearms, he never even noticed, but he shakes himself free of the Android now, who stumbles back a step, then another, to fall upon the edge of the bed.

”Dirk. I apologize if something I have said has brought you discomf--”

“Don't. This conversation didn't happen.”

”But it did.”

“There is a universe in which it didn't and we're channeling it now.”

”Dirk—“

“End of discussion.”

The android watches, eyes half closed in some thought as Dirk exits the room to the outside world, likely going to the roof. He closes the door behind him despite the time of night and the need to chase what heat he can from the house.  
AR lays down, turning his head into the pillow and attempting to think of what makes things truly important.


	15. Silverline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't wake the lover   
> The spell I'm under  
> Be grace, I need it  
> I pray I believe it   
> Silverline, I'll save you every time

It's harder to ignore AR when he has a body. Back when he was confined to the shades, it was simple, he could set the AI aside, and pretend like he wasn't seeing the flashes red, like he wasn't aware of the heavy air of the room. Now that the AI has a chassis, now that AR can stare into what Dirk feels must be his soul with every moment he refuses to answer the soft requests of ”Talk to me...”

Those words are too real now. No longer trapped in a cage of text.

AR is going insane. When Dirk did this before, when days passed—and days have passed, three of them—It was easy enough to ignore, not entirely, but at the very least, there was a patience there he had accepted. He's no longer trapped in the shades, but he's still trapped, in this body, in this bed. No, this won't do.

The android sits up shakily, watching the back of Dirk's head across the room where he sits working on something he has refused to discuss with AR. But the boy doesn't stir, so he continues, edging towards the place where the desk is pressed up to the edge of the pile of mattresses that serves as a bed. One hand on the edge of the desk, he pushes himself up on lamb-shaky legs. 

Which is fine, until he lets go, until he takes a step and gravity closes its omnipresent jaws around his delicate frame and pulls down towards the earth as gravity is apt to do.

There's an instinct to scream, but nothing comes out, he's too startled to react, eyes slamming shut as he accepts the soon to be inevitable burst of pain that will explode across his frame, arms flailing uselessly in that second as he tries to decide how he's going to fall.

Except, he doesn't.

Never in the past did the Auto-Responder appreciate how fast Dirk was, somehow, it seemed less real when he was trapped in the shades, he had been practically a part of Dirk then, and even the memories he has of Dirk's youth do no justice to the sheer explosive presence the man has, one moment across the room, the next, right here.

There is something almost frightening about the intensity of Dirk's eyes in the moment he looks up from where he kneels on the floor, it takes AR a second or two to realize he only sprinted most of the way, he's slid the last foot and a half or so on his knees across the wooden floor. Surely it hurt. But if it did, it's not on Dirk's face, not in his eyes, damn those eyes, once upon a time AR assumed he wore shades to protect his eyes from the world, but for a moment, he wonders if he doesn't wear the shades to protect the world from his eyes, which close now as the teen exhales.

“That was illogical.” he stands, bringing AR up straight with him.   
”You could have allowed me to fall. Do humans not learn through trial and error?” he's still in shock, lips still despite the words coming clear, eyes still turned down, watching the bruises beginning to form on Dirk's knees.

“Hurt yourself some other way. I told you I wouldn't let you fall, I don't fuck around with promises.”

How amusing. Humans are such irrational creatures.  
Fingers curling against Dirk's arms again, he pauses, waiting to see if the boy will pull away, but he doesn't, he just stands there, even when AR steps forward more, some strange game of chicken.

“Come on.”

AR jumps, he hadn't expected the speech, but he nods without knowing what exactly he's agreeing with. Nothing huge it turns out, just Dirk shifting to help him continue. Walking is a skill that comes with great difficulty at first, and then suddenly seems to drop off into immediate understanding. He just has to feel the way his weight shifts and sways, how it pulls in his legs and back and hips. But it's more than that, a sort of movement of the shoulders as well always a balancing act.

Really, he doesn't even notice Dirk has let go until the boy is a good few steps away. It's surprising in a way similar to falling, how did he _not_ notice that something so vital had left?

The android watches as Dirk settles down to work again, the sendificator has been torn apart, its pieces lay fanned out on the ground on a white sheet so that nothing is lost. Like nothing ever happened, faster than a breath. He knows it took longer than that, but it's done now, and it feels a million miles away.

He could walk over, touch the boy, ask if he needed help. He's right there, so why does he feel so far?  
Leather-clad steps on the floor. Dirk acknowledges them inwardly but doesn't look up, not even when AR seats himself shakily at his side, crossed knees nearly brushing one of his own. If AR spoke, he would reply, but the android says nothing, just watches.

Which is good. 

Dirk doesn't think he has the heart to lie if AR asks what he's making anyway.


	16. Deep sea baby, I follow you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone for hanging in here with me despite my mini hiatus, I'm still very sick. But you all deserve a chapter. So here you go!

No longer do his legs shake, though his hands still tremble ever so slightly at the fingers and he still seems ever so slightly uncertain of himself when ascending or descending stairs. Dirk is proud of himself, and he has every right to be, piecing together a living being from scrapmetal, from hope and stolen ink, it's no easy feat. And AR is alive, incredibly so, from the way his eyes flicker upwards to follow the movement of a passing gull to the way he investigates things with a curiosity every newly made thing has, he approaches new things tentatively, a strange new seabird is watched only until it takes to the air too suddenly, and then, AR is back, he is always back, at Dirk's side like a foal returning in anxiety to stand between its mothers legs.

Dirk's answers are always the same, frustratingly so almost.

“It's just a bird. You can take care of yourself.”  
“It's just a storm. You can take care of yourself.”  
“It's just a fish. You can take care of yourself.”

He states these things like a self assured parent urging their child to the playground that they may be left in peace to read or flicker idly through their phones without ever realizing that in doing so they are losing far more important things. Watching one's creation grow is one of life's greatest pleasures. Not that Dirk is completely ignorant, he finds his lips curling upwards into a tired smile whenever AR manages anything of note. When they lift something without shaking it to the point of frustration or whenever they make it to the top of the steps without pausing to wonder if they will really make it.

For now, he's put his project aside, to eat and to watch the sea. The waves gnawing at the side of the building are wild, and though he cannot yet see the clouds, he expects a storm by that night. For the best he supposes, something to wash away the buildup of salt and days past from whatever it touches, perhaps he'll put out clothing to sit in it. To wear something not steeped in the brine of the ocean would be a treat. For now however, it's none of his concern.

”You look at the sea with such a strange expression.”

The voice no longer makes him jump, instead, he remains silent until the android has joined him, legs hanging over the edge of the frail building, swinging quietly. How dangerous this is, how adventurous they are. Certainly if they fell from here into the sea they would never survive. But an adventure was never fun without the threat of not coming back from it.

Perhaps 'Would you like to go on an adventure' is simply another way of saying 'Will you follow me to the end of days?'

Perhaps, 'I would like to go with you' is simply another way of saying 'I love you'

One could wonder for many days on the strange ways people say such a simple thing.

“Do I?”

AR stills, eyes fixated on Dirk's eyes fixated on the curve of the horizon.   
”Yes. There is a one hundred percent chance that I am not lying to you. That calculation is correct by the way. Do not check my math. Simply trust in me.”

The bowl Dirk holds in one hand is shifted as he lifts another piece of salted fish up to pop it into his mouth, chewing in the sort of way people do when they are buying time so as not to have to answer a question they do not wish to discuss.

“You don't know that. You have no one to compare my expressions to. For all you know this is the way everyone looks at the ocean.”  
AR considers this for a time, attempting to think of a way to articulate his point of view without falling back on the opinion of 'it feels like you look at it strangely' because certainly if he feels something there must be some reason behind it, certainly things cannot be so simple as 'I simply feel that way' 

Feeling is so, arbitrary and yet. Perhaps just as important as knowing, all the same.  
”You look at it in a similar way to which you looked at your friend's usernames. You look at the sea as if it is something you have lost.”

Dirk pops another piece of fish in his mouth, choking on it when he jumps in response to AR bringing a hand down with a loud sound upon the stone between them.

”You are purposefully ignoring me in the hopes that I will leave the conversation.”

The blonde watches his coughed-up fish fall, watches a gull snap it up midair. At the very least he supposes it wasn't wasted, though he shoots a glare at his creation all the same for the sheer purpose of making it known that he does not appreciate his peace being disturbed.

Lifting another piece of fish to his mouth, he makes a point of meeting AR's eyes when he pops it past his lips and, in frustration, the android snatches the bowl away, emptying it over the side of the building.  
”Brooding and ignoring my inquisitions does not assist me in learning about your current emotional state!” the words come out caressed in static, slightly irksome, though Dirk cannot help but appreciate how good AR has gotten at mimicking the lip movements necessary for speech, how they curve delicately around each letter, even if they are sharp, agitated letters.

“I don't see why learning about my emotional state is important. Don't you have things to do? I had hoped you would be less needy with a body.”

The high pitched dialup sound AR makes in response is near headache inducing.  
”I am not needy! I am simply frustrated with your ignorance!”

“I'm not ignorant, it isn't important.” he inspects his empty bowl, still settled in AR's hand, and laments his food related loss.

”It is important! You are important!”

Dirk's fingers curl, hard enough to leave crescent marks in the meat of his palms. But it's only momentary.  
“Do you think there are other people out there?”

Is that what he's been looking for? A sign?   
Is that what he lost? A society?

There is a soft sound as the bowl is set down on the edge of the building, the quiet is delicate, quivering in the anticipation of being broken.

”I know we are here.” he decides at last.  
”And perhaps that is what is most important.”

He watches Dirk's tongue flick from his mouth, wetting his lips, pale pink, he is overcome with the sudden urge to run the tips of his fingers along the apex of Dirk's lower lip, to see if it as is soft as it looks.

“All right.”

Dirk looks up, turns his gaze on AR with an expression fit for the sea.   
It is an expression AR feels much too small for.

”All right.” he repeats, as if confirming a question he never really heard, so transfixed on Dirk's eyes and the colour of his mouth that he jumps when fingers brush his shoulder.

“It's going to rain.” Dirk says, lips curving up into an infinitesimal shadow of a smile.  
“Let's go in.”

AR is not exactly sure what has just happened.  
He feels, all at once, like the ocean.

Much too full, and much too empty.


	17. Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> watch my back so i make sure  
> you're right behind me as before  
> yesterday the night before tomorrow  
> dry my eyes so you won't know  
> dry my eyes so i won't show  
> i know you're right behind me

AR has no need of sleep. Though they enter a rest-mode state at night all the same for the sake of preserving power, as if their power source won't last them until Dirk is long gone and the world has dried up and the stars have blinked out. 

Perhaps not that long, but such idle fantasies are fun, aren't they?  
Harmless, surely.

It's easy for a machine, the on and off flicker of controlled circuitry, less simple for a human being, and he finds himself staring at the window from where he lays on the floor, having given AR free reign over his bed despite perhaps half a protest or two. Dirk is more used to physical discomfort, it was the logical decision, AR never stood a chance.

Outside, the rain is coming down in sheets. He can just hear the crescendo of a splash as a hunk of metal and cement either from his building or one nearby is torn into the sea. How long, he wonders, until his entire building is devoured by the ocean below? The thought should likely be terrifying, but it really isn't. A simple fact of life the same way it is a fact of life for most people that in their day to day lives they may be mugged or be in a car accident or be injured at work, these things are an omnipresent danger and yet people do not live their lives cowering for fear of the day a car will come careening into them, it would be a waste of energy.

Of course. Those are only 'maybe' events. And not certainties, but then, Dirk can't be sure it will even go down during his lifetime. Though he swears during the worst of storms that the building trembles.

His gaze glides across the room, perhaps in the darkness of his room, cut through only with the light of the moon and distant stars, all should seem dangerous and alien, but he has seen enough nights to know the dusk as easily as he knows the dawn. There in the corner are Squarewave, nestled gently against Sawtooth. Their eyes unblinking but unlit as well in their own dreamless power-saving state.

Vaguely, he wonders if they dream, if AR dreams. He cannot tell from the Anbroids faces if they do, because they do not change, never a twitch of a mouth or fluttering of eyes beneath the lid. AR is so human though, he's sure he could tell by looking at their face. And though he knows it's definitively more creepy to do so than not, he finds himself sitting up, bones popping as they're forced into use after having been lain on the hard floor.

His bare feet are quiet on the ground, a soft pad-pad-pad as he makes his way the short distance to the bed, listening to the mattress sigh as he sits upon it. AR's face is serene in the low light, too low a light, he can't pick up the small movements he's looking for, how frustrating. So, he finds himself leaning in, brow furrowed in concentration as he does so. For a moment, he is shocked and pleased, watching AR's lips curl up into a little smile at the corners, which they then go on to ruin by talking.

”Watching people sleep is not nearly as endearing as some of the books you have found in the sea would have you believe, Dirk” their voice is soft, not at all husky or rough with sleep the way an imperfect organic being's is, but different somehow in its own way, a little light, a little slow, like they're still booting up core systems. 

“Go to hell.” the reply comes, and Dirk's voice is, very much, sleep rough and harsher than he intends, though it doesn't stop him from shifting in the beginning movements of standing up, cut off by AR's hand on his wrist.  
“Go back to rest mode AR. I'm tired.” he's tired, he's always tired. He says this like he intends to sleep. Always lying, still, the hand on his wrist isn't harsh or judgmental, simply a silent urge to slow, and stop, in his movements.

His sigh is loud, not purposefully, it simply is, and under the din of rain, it is not so jarring as it could be anyway.  
AR's fingers are soft against his wrist, tracing tendon and the soft upwards bump where a vein sits particularly close to skin. Dirk debates speaking, but his tongue feels sticky and heavy in his mouth now, paying acute attention as AR sits up, their hand sliding up his wrist to the midpoint of his arm, pausing there before falling away. The android is quiet, hands limp in their own lap, leaning over with tentative grace to lean their weight lightly against Dirk's back, turning their face against the place where his neck draws down into his shoulderblades. 

Dirk can feel their brow furrow, though he can't quite decide what the expression is without seeing it, thoughtful, or the moment before a human would shed tears? A mixture between the two? He supposes it doesn't matter in the end. 

”I do not want you to go”

Dirk's brows twitch into a furrow, expression, for half a second, one of shock, before easing back into neutrality.  
“I'm not going anywhere” 

”You are lying. I hate it. I hate you!”

Dirk chuckles, AR is so new in that way, that they can reduce such things as hate down to mere petty words rather than a burning wish for something to cease existing in the world. And he speaks the way he would as if AR really were a child.

“No you don't. You're using that word wrong.”  
He is jostled out of place when AR moves away, pulls him by the shirt he's wearing to look, pulls him to attention, pulls him back to reality. 

”You are deflecting! I hate that as well! You know I hate that!” they rake their hands, both of them, through their own snowy white hair, face contorted into a mask of sorrow and rage.  
”I have called you out on lying and you are calling me out on my word usage!” their hands come down with a muffled sound against their own blanket-clad legs, immediately, they tangle in the blanket itself as well. 

”Stop pretending as if you are the hero of some story and admit you are as terrified as I am!”

Dirk's fingers curl into the edge of the bed where they rest.  
“Don't shove your emotions onto me. I'm not afraid.” 

”Yes you are! I know you are!”

“And how do you know that?”

”Because I _am_ you! Because I know you are terrified of being alone. And because I know you think you are alone. Because I also know you don't think I'm real! But I am real! You said so yourself, from out of the nothing comes everything, and we are it! I am as real as anything else! I exist!”

Dirk flinches, lips parting as if to speak again.

”I am more than what you made me to be! I am real! I _am_ real!”

Dirk's mouth closes again, one of his hands moving from the edge of the bed to alight tentatively upon AR's shoulder. “Or as unreal.” and his skin twitches under AR's hand when they lift one to rest it upon Dirk's, their dainty fingers curling gently there. 

”You can decide to take it that way. But the end result is the same. _We_ are the same”  
Dirk's hand moves again, out from under AR's own and off their shoulder to their cheek, noting with some surprise that instead of pulling away as he half expected, AR instead leans very softly into the touch. The android is warm, like real skin but so much softer in a way, more perfect. He's proud of his work. 

He wants to say something, wants to refute AR's claim, but in a way, they're right enough, both made of the same things spit from dying stars. Maybe AR is more real than he is, AR clings to existence like a lifeline, Dirk is drowning in it, pulled under by waves he never sees coming.

”You took the sendificator apart. Because you are creating something with it. You would not be so intent on using just it if it was not unique in some way. So you are attempting to create a way to leave. Because if it can move objects, you can use it to create a way to move yourself.”

Dirk's throat tightens like he's stepped into a noose, and he nods, voice too small: “Yes.”

The blond man moves, hand falling from AR's cheek as he positions himself better on the bed, back pressed against the wall and remaining pillow beside AR, and for a time, all is silent.

”I had a nightmare you left me behind.”

Ah.

So Androids do dream.


	18. Breaking it up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have all been so endlessly patient, I'm so grateful for all of you.  
> I'm going to do my best to get this done soon.   
> Just know that it isn't an abandoned work! It will be finished, I promise you that much.

He watches AR's hands move across delicate machinery with the same idle fascination he watches the wings of seabirds, the way the android's fingers shift shakily, the way they glide over metal with a tremulous certainty, it's every bit as interesting as the tilt of an avian's windblown wing as it shifts itself to stay aloft, moreso even, because he knows AR's hands down to their smallest pieces, because he created them, and now they are creating. If there isn't some sort of magic in that, then there is no magic in anything.

Dirk has made no move to speak on the android's dreams or nightmares since the night he confessed to having them what feels like lifetimes ago but has really only been a precious handful of days, and AR for his part has made absolutely no move to bring them up either, if he has had any of note, they remain his own, locked in whirling mechanisms of machinery and thought.

It occurs only when his eyes slide up that the android has been speaking, but he can't say he's especially concerned about what he's missed, AR is a being of extremes, silent or chattering away below his breath in streams of consciousness they both know Dirk will tune out sooner rather than later, still so unused and to be entirely honest, not exactly desiring of the constant sounds that come with having another speaking being in one's life, all the same, he can't bring himself to demand AR silence the thoughts that have been confined to text for so long, and so, he has become very good at tuning the words out, a voice that once felt so jarring now blends into the auditory scenery much in the same way as the crash of the sea or the cry of gulls.

The machine sitting between their bodies—Dirk hunched over as he works and the Auto Responder so much more prim and proper, as if with an organic spine he feels some need to care for—is slowly gaining a shape of its own, the work is slow going however, it's quite massive, and Dirk fears it will outgrow his room soon. Not entirely, it isn't so large as to need the entirety of his room, but he has always liked his spaces open.

AR is still talking. He watches the android's synthetic lips curl and caress the words as if he actually needed the motions to speak, sometimes, they're still imperfect, especially on words he's never seen spoken before, but these mistakes are far more endearing than they are jarring. 

“AR”

The chattering trails off, and the voice lilts up into the clarity one associates with being listened to rather than babbling at oneself.

”Yes, Dirk?” the glassy red eyes do not even rise despite the given attention, far too embroiled in concentrating upon the task at hand. One does not need to see in order to hear after all.

“I was thinking we would clear the living room out a bit. Move the transporter out of here.”   
Quiet for a moment, AR's head finally lifting, eyes flickering towards the wardrobe.  
”I do not think it will fit through your...secret door. But I would be glad to help you in repairing the rest of our home”

The choice of words does not go unnoticed, and silently Dirk stores the use of 'Our Home' away for later questioning or at the very least, thought. The knowledge that the machinery won't fit through the wardrobe takes up the forefront of his mind, he never intended it to go that way of course, but rather, that it may be time to finally move that statue from the entrance proper. The ridiculous notion that his sibling had placed it there had been endearing for a time, he clings to it even now, it is one of the few things he has been left after all.

But it can't stay there forever. Eventually, everything is forced to move, even mountains are eroded, even storms pass.

“We'll use the front door.”  
AR does not even pause to question this plan, but his head shifts in the smallest of nods, placing works of metal aside and standing to brush off the leather of his legs, although they were never really dusty to begin with, he bends down as he does so, back bending with the grace of a bird's unfolding wing, the more he learns, the more ethereal he seems to become, every movement too carefully dainty, every word too softly spoken, he seems to Dirk all at once out of place and far too real, wisps of literally-silken hair practically luminescent in the sun's too-warm claws, ink-dyed body far too dark in the shady sanctuary of the room at night. He isn't sure if he's more taken by what AR has made of himself or his own craftsmanship, indeed, there's an almost Icarian hubris that seems to swell in his chest whenever he regards his creation, alongside something softer, nameless.

Steps that had not long ago been as uncertain as a young lamb's are surer now, not yet certain, not yet absolute, but rather more than they had once been.

And in a way, the movements are more elegant than Dirk's own, for AR rises and moves with near silence, nothing but the soft padding of his leather clad feet and Dirk's movements are peppered with the popping of stiff joints and the barely audible sound of an exhale. 

Half of him expects AR to pause in the darkness of the livingroom, for the artificial intelligence to show some sign of hesitation or fear, he isn't sure where the expectation comes from, and it's swiftly proved null and void, for AR is already solemnly inspecting the overlarge statue of Captain Snoop.

The marble likeness of Snoop Dogg is undeniably pimpin'. But, most unfortunately, inconvenient in the grand scheme of things. He ponders on the best way to remove it, arms crossed as he moves to stand at his creation's side. The bust is far too heavy for him to move alone, and he doubts that even AR's assistance would make the task possible. And more than that, where can he move it? 

His observation is silent, eyes tracking AR idly as the android hefts himself up onto the brim of the seafaring rapper's likeness, one leg crossing as if with practiced daintiness over the other, pale hands folding there atop his lap.

”The real question is, do you even plan on keeping it?”

AR's ability to seemingly predict his thoughts is jarring, Dirk isn't sure he likes it. But then, he isn't sure he dislikes it either, it's so foreign he simply can't articulate a real opinion on the matter.

“It's not exactly serving much use.” he confesses, and yet, he can't bring himself to give the obvious response of 'No, absolutely not' because, in all honesty, some part of him clings to any shred of his long dead sibling that he can, childish though it may be. He never even knew Dave, the man is more fairytale than family.

“It would be a shame to waste the marble though. Let's just see if we can move it out of the way of the door.”  
Between him, AR, Sawtooth, and Squarewave, they may just be able to do that much. The two other robots are never far away, and the Auto Responder barely has time to slide down from their perch before their two 'siblings' have been called over. All the same, even between the four of them...

Well, it's the best he can do for now.

“Me and AR will push. You two pull.”

Their hands, so much stronger than Dirk's own human limbs and AR's intricate mimicry of humanity, would be better suited to something as difficult as that. All the same, when he instructs them to pull, he can see the strain it takes to keep a grip on the smooth marble surface, indeed, even AR's hands, shoving against the side, seem fit to bruise or break, at the very least, they seem as if they might bruise, could he bruise at all.

Oddly enough, the stone feels nearly cool under his touch, not cold, it isn't even truly cool, but it isn't nearly so hot as the rest of the apartment complex seems to stay, and he finds himself leaning his forehead against it even as the muscles of his arms and legs scream pain at his whirling mind. It's just as he's about to give in to the pleading of his aching limbs that the statue begins to move, scraping across the ground with one of the more terrible sounds Dirk has heard, leaving deep gouges in the wooden floor where it once stood, it has truly left its mark, not only in the chasms of its being forced aside, but also where the ground seems to have taken on a seeming indentation, birthed of weight and wood made pliable by the humid air.

It scrapes its way past the door's reach just as Dirk is certain he can't take any more, his legs folding neatly beneath him, lungs heaving for air, he's certain his face must be blood red with the effort, beside him, AR too loses the struggle with gravity, and comes sliding down beside him, the mechanical whir of their inner mechanisms a replacement for desperate breaths an android will never need.

There is a pressure as the AI leans into Dirk's shoulder for some semblance of support, the boy's fiery eyes closing as he catches his breath.

They've done it, the four of them, after all these years.  
They've finally begun to shove old ghosts aside.


	19. Follow your lead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First off; a small shoutout to hottestpairofshadesyouknow at tumblr for being so sweet.
> 
> Onwards. Thank you all for sticking with me for so long. And I'm sorry this has all been taking so long. This fic will be drawing in to its conclusion soon and I'll have a proper thank you then. But for now, I'd just like to say thank you to everyone who just started reading, and thank you to everyone who has been here since ch.1. And a thank you to everyone who has kudos'd or commented, they keep me going.
> 
> Enjoy.

AR's fingers are delicate in their movements, ever so careful as they turn machine parts over in their hands. Dirk had not entirely expected them to be gifted in engineering, he is not gifted in biology beyond what he needs to be to care for himself despite being made of meat himself. But AR is part of himself, crafted from a copy of his own mind, and he has always been good with technology.

Well. The cold parts of technology. Putting together rivets and screws, sheets of metal, wires. Perhaps not so gifted in interacting with the technology he builds. Not all of it.

He doesn't mind anymore when his or AR's movements bring them too close in contact, when they reach for nearby pieces of technology and their hands brush, he doesn't flinch from it the way he had at first. And together, they work well, he can see the little transporter coming together beautifully. At first, his plan had been to make one he could stand upon, but it would only be one use then and he would have to rely on entering a timeline or place well stocked with the supplies to build another.

So the plan changed. He'll build one he can wear on his wrist instead. 

”You should eat”

AR's voice draws his gaze upwards slowly, to the android who is backlit by thin strands of crepuscular rays which find their way even through the sheets he puts up over the windows during the day. It turns their white hair the colour of a washed out sun around the edges. It unnerves Dirk in a way, though he has not seen another human in almost longer than he can remember and he has little to compare it to, AR is inhuman in their bearing. Not uncanny-valley really but still, too perfect.

“I'm not hungry.” he's not lying, he hasn't been hungry in what feels like forever, he eats because he has to, but there are better distractions than food. Work, for instance.

”You should eat anyway. You haven't eaten today.”

The boy's shoulders raise, and then fall again in a shrug, it's followed by a yawn. Save for heading up to the roof to let laundry dry, he feels like he hasn't done anything in a lifetime. Instead of answering AR (something the android will call him out on later) he asks a question of his own;

“Do you want to see the ocean?”

There's a lull in AR's movements.  
”I have seen the ocean, Dirk. It is right outside.”

Of course, how brusque, for a moment he thinks AR may be punishing him with sarcasm, and then he realizes, no, the android thinks he is the one being sarcastic. It's a pitfall borne of the two of them being passive aggressive, sarcastic and blunt all rolled up into singular beings, admittedly, AR has over the years taken on a penchant for heavier, more obvious sarcasm than Dirk tends towards. They're similar, they are not the same, regardless of what AR thinks or says.

“No. Up close.”

For a few long moments, this thought seems to be turned over in AR's mind, and Dirk doesn't push them. They look at the window, it's still early, they've both been awake since before the sun was up and it's only just really rising. 

”The fire escape is broken. Even if you jumped down to reach the boat. You would not be able to return.” it's a question within a question, not so much a 'no' as it is a 'how'. As if Dirk has somehow forgotten.   
“I'll tie the fishing nets up and we can climb down. If they don't snap under the weight of struggling sea life. They won't snap being used as ladders.”

”You're deflecting again...” still, AR hasn't experienced anything beyond the tiny world that is this room of the apartment and the roof, Dirk can see the wheels of thought turning behind their eyes, and in the end, as he knew they would, they sigh.

”Yes, I would like to see the sea.”

Dirk stands, motioning for AR to follow as he gathers up fishing nets, more than that though, he pulls baskets from their places hidden in a closet alongside what little clothing he owns. These, he ties in the finer net, a delicate bag of supplies, this trip isn't all for pleasure, as much as his appetite has left him, he does need food, and keeping his diet as varied as possible is important when he has access only to what he can pull from the surrounding sea.

Following like a shadow, AR looks on curiously, but offers no assistance, and Dirk would not accept it even if they did, keeping himself busy keeps Dirk alive, and AR won't disturb his quiet rituals of life. Outside, the seabirds have long since begun stirring, out fishing for the day. 

The heat of the day is obvious from the moment the door is slid open before them and closed behind them, the warmth inside the apartment is nothing compared to the humid heat outside, Dirk has known nothing else, it hardly phases him now. AR is more delicate, but all the same, it has become familiar to the android and despite the niggling discomfort when they first exit, they can for the most part overcome it. What remains of the fire escape is sturdy despite the swathes of rust, eventually, it too will fall into the sea, but for now it holds the both of them easily, hardly creaking as Dirk secures the thicker nets anywhere and everywhere he believes he can, railings, nails, safety is important despite how hard it is to obtain.

The baskets he hefts over his shoulder, binding them about an arm so that his hands are free. He is not afraid, but he is cautious.

“Just watch. When I've made it to the bottom. I'll call you down.” 

The netting is by no means thin, but the wind still catches and turns it, he must be careful as he descends, sitting at the edge and finding footholds with much caution. He's barefoot despite the inherent risk of stepping on something sharp, but if he gets swept off by some odd tide, he needs to be able to swim without shoes getting in the way. 

It always amazes him how clear the water is, how he can see straight to the bottom.   
Stepping off the netting, he almost flinches at the feeling of sand under his feet, so unused to it despite living so near to it. The abandoned high-rise apartment is surrounded by odd interlocking shelves of sandbar, reef, and the sunken skeletons of buildings which were not lucky enough to survive the changes the Condesce brought to Earth. 

Warm water soaks into the denim of his jeans uncomfortably, and he takes a moment to heft himself up on the damp surface of what was likely once someone's patio, carefully wriggling free of his jeans and leaving them in a patch of sunlight to dry. The baskets, he sets in the shade.

Here, the water isn't quite high enough to soak the cloth of his boxers, and even if it were, it would be much less discomforting than wet denim. Giving the netting a tug to make sure it hasn't somehow come loose, he looks up, finding himself staring at a distance at AR, who has peeked their head gingerly over the edge of the fire escape to check on their creator.

“You can head down now.” he calls up to them, voice nearly drowned out by the wind and distant waves, which break upon themselves or some other sandbar long before they reach him, despite how open the sea appears here, despite how open, and how deep it is some places not even a few feet away, it stays relatively calm so long as the weather permits it to.

AR is clumsy coming down, pausing as if attempting to run some equation to find the perfect step every time they must take one, clinging tightly, head tilted down when a strong gust of wind makes the netting tremble or twist. But they do not call for help, and they do not abscond, they are not afraid.

“There we go...” he finds himself reaching up once AR is close enough, hands sliding up their sides as they continue, he doesn't expect the little jump AR makes, perhaps they were more nervous than he gave them credit for. He finds himself splashed with water up to the hips as they all at once drop and twist in an attempt to cling to him. They've never felt anything as unsturdy as sand, much less sand beneath the water, how it seems always to want to swallow one up. Their hands flutter about Dirk's neck and shoulders like worried birds, as if half trying to clamber up him, the weight, though not all that much, still makes the boy move backwards in the water, soon, they are both standing up to their thighs in seawater.

“AR, hey, you're not falling. Easy...” Dirk's hands have long since been raised up in some facade of surrender, as if afraid touching the android will set them off again, for now however, they have gone very still, so still that for a moment Dirk wonders if perhaps he made some mistake when water proofing the android and now their circuits are misfiring. Following the turn of AR's head however, he realizes that, no, they are simply distracted, watching a small school of shimmering, multicoloured fish flash by in the water. Their head is pressed so close to his chest, tucked up under his chin, that he can feel when they move, just a little, to follow the school's movements.

Slowly, very slowly, Dirk's hands lower, trembling just a little as he makes up his mind to rest them on the android's hips.

All at once, however, AR is gone, having forgotten their fear of the shifting sand below in favor of curiosity, they have fled his touch. And he watches with eyes slightly squinted against the light (he would have hated to lose his shades) as they give chase, tripping once or twice over some unseen stone or rise in the ground they could not see past their own distraction. It is only when a particularly bad misstep sends them sprawling into the ocean, coming back up sputtering, hair silver with seawater, that Dirk truly reacts again.

It starts at the corners of his mouth, how they turn upwards, slowly, into a smile, and then with a slight shaking as laughter bubbles up from his chest, quiet at first, and then growing slightly louder, the sound is so foreign it surprises him and AR alike, for the disgruntled looking android quickly turns to watch their creator as he doubles over trying to get himself back under control.

”You are laughing.”

Dirk inhales, leaning against the twisted remains of what he thinks may have at one point been a car.  
“It was funny. C'mon, don't get pissed just because you tripped.”

”I have never heard you laugh without some underlying tone that was not genuine amusement.” the android explains, ”It is...Mellifluous.” AR's expression is thoughtful, still sitting up to their chest in warm water, which rolls off the leather of their body even when it does splash up further, Dirk did a good job treating it.

Sitting very still like this, the fish have come to him, and Dirk watches idly as the little creatures investigate the android's hands as if hoping they hide some morsel of food, the pure wonder in those again-distracted red eyes causes something in Dirk's chest to twist, it's a weird, foreign feeling that all at once mixes with the joy he had felt a moment ago. It doesn't sour the joy, or make it any less, but quite suddenly, he has the strangest urge to cry, head turning down, watching the water lap at his legs. His mind supplies him a million things to make his eyes prickle. 

Did his guardian ever watch him in the sea? Did his guardian laugh often? He can't remember, he can't remember. He can barely remember a thing, can't remember if he laughed or what it would have sounded like, the colour of his eyes...

”Dirk, look!”

His head snaps up, shaking the thoughts aside for a moment. Instead, he watches AR run his hands over the strange lusus-beast that has come to investigate them, the beasts that the condesce brought are strange, and the way wildlife has changed is, well, strange, but he can still tell if it started on Earth or elsewhere by the colour, and because this one is so pale as to be a papery white, it's likely alien. At first, it looks quite simply like a large sea turtle, yet the six flippers and long, dull-spade tipped tail give it away as more.

In any case, it seems friendly enough, bumping against the android's hand lazily when they gently stroke its head. He thinks he heard once that lusii raised baby trolls, so it would make sense that they were smarter than the average animal or even more friendly. AR's fingers trace the odd patterns in its shell.

“Looks like you've made a friend. Guess you don't need me anymore.”

AR snorts, choosing not to respond other than that, and Dirk's smile returns, though, not so wide. He has work to do however, and he moves to fetch one of the baskets, walking around his distracted creation and further out into the sea, shaded by the building behind him. He has to be careful on the reefs, he has cut himself before, and blood has a nasty habit of drawing in creatures he doesn't much want to tangle with.

He is searching for shellfish, of which there are plenty, ranging from no longer than his middle finger, to larger than his entire hand, fingers spread. Just as interesting as the shellfish however, are the sea-urchins, long spined creatures filled with roe that makes the trouble of coming down and searching them out well worth it. He's tempted to find a sharp rock and open one up now, but it can wait.

Every so often, he pauses to look up and find AR. At least, until the android comes to him, not walking on the reef or sandbar itself, but rather, startling Dirk in how he floats in the deep sea beside it. It takes the man a moment to realize the android is simply clinging to the lusus who has so taken a liking to them. Perhaps it thinks AR is a troll.

Amusing to think about.

“Here. See if it wants a treat for hefting you around.”

Rummaging through his mostly submerged basket, Dirk hands over some bivalve with a dark, glossy shell, which AR reaches out to take, holding it in the water before the not-turtle. Which hesitates for a moment before taking it gingerly from the android's fingers, the shell shattering like glass in its beaklike mouth. AR seems amused, Dirk is less interested in the novelty of it and more interested in whether he can use this animal to his advantage.

In the end however, he decides against it, and returns to gathering.

”If you taught me how to swim, I could dive for you. I do not need to breathe, after all.”

Swimming is a useful skill, Dirk spent a long time turning himself into a strong swimmer, he can freedive to impressive depths, but AR is right, they could stay under for as long as they liked. He can't see any harm in it, and it would stave off some worry in regards to having AR around the water.  
“All right. We'll start tomorrow.” he doesn't have time to gather food and give AR lessons today. And, regarding the turtle again, he realizes that the animal has already been a help simply by being a willing floatation device for his companion. Honestly the animal probably deserves more food, he makes a mental note to leave some behind for it.

When the basket is full, he returns it to the balcony, setting it in the water beneath the overhang so that the animals in the basket won't die and begin to rot. They're soft baskets, part nylon, part thin metal wires so they keep their shape. Lightweight but strong. And so he continues, filling baskets, bringing them back. Repeat. It's soothing work, if hard.

He does not speak again until much later, when the sun is high, soon, they'll have to head back up to avoid being caught in it.

“AR, you want to hold this for me?”

The lack of response is annoying. And Dirk looks up as if to reprimand, expression softening as he watches the android, who seems more in rest mode than not, cheek resting on the lusus-turtle's shell. Makes sense, the motion of the sea is soothing. Dirk hefts the basket up, emptying a portion of its half-full contents into the sand.

“Trade you.” he speaks, as if the animal can understand him as he reaches out to draw it nearer, gingerly working his arms around AR and lifting them into his arms. The water runs off the leather easily, no waterlogging, no extra weight, it's still a little hard to haul them back to the shallows, but he manages, dropping the basket beside the others.

He'll have to wake AR up to bring them back, he can't carry them up the netting, but for now, he simply sits, slowly, laying AR's head against his chest, the water comes up almost past their shoulders half-laying like this, safe enough however, from discomfort, the boy's hand not supporting their head finds itself gingerly laying upon their hip, as it so nearly had earlier.

They look peaceful when they let themself slip into rest mode, he doesn't suppose they're really tired, he isn't sure they can feel tired, overwhelmed maybe, less physically exhausted than mentally. Slowly, Dirk's hand moves from their waist, up to brush a lock of their hair back, they shift only slightly to make themself more comfortable on their creator's crossed legs.

”I could have walked.”

Figures. Still...  
“I thought you were resting. Next time, don't let me carry you if you can walk.

”I like when you carry me. It feels more secure than walking on my own.”

Dirk watches their lips move around the words, something they have perfected with practice, his fingers moving from their hair down the line of their cheek, the very tips of the digits brushing along their lower lip, a motion which draws their eyes into opening, thin lines of cherry red as they observe him.

“Come on. I need to set these out to dry.”

Dirk moves, pushing AR into a sitting position and moving to fetch the baskets. Wrapping them back in their netting.

“If you could haul the ladder up after us. I'd appreciate it.”

AR watches, sitting still in the briny water, they think perhaps the fake nerves beneath the skin of their lips is malfunctioning, they swear they're tingling. Perhaps they should say something.

”Yes.”  
they say instead.  
”I can do that.”


	20. Sleeping Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter after this one will be nsfw. This is a heads up.
> 
>  
> 
> Now then. I would like to thank you all for staying with me, if I'm not mistaken, I started this fanfic a year ago today, and some of you are still with me from that very first day. I never imagined this fic would get more than a small handful of readers, if that, much less such beautiful dedicated fans as I've found here. You have been so sweet in your reviews and in the messages you've left me on tumblr. If it weren't for you, I would likely have given up on this long ago for fear that no one out there cared if it was finished or not. You have no idea how emotional the very thought that you readers are out there and you exist and you like what I do.
> 
>  
> 
> This fic isn't that far from its end. I'll have more to say then. But for now, please enjoy, and thank you, as always, for your patience.

He can't sleep.  
For the most part, AR is not bothered by the heat, their coolant system has been built incredibly well, the heat that keeps him up now is something more akin to a fever dream, if they could come down with a fever, every time their systems begin falling into sleep mode, they swear they can feel Dirk's fingers across their face, leaving lines of impossible fire. It's been days since the sea and the sky and that _touch_ but he can feel it, he swears to every God new and old that he can feel it.

Slowly, the android sits up, it is a practiced ease, an action so silent they would never have been able to perform it when they were first moved into a body, but they've become near as graceful as Dirk now, the bed hardly seems to shift as they swing their legs over the edge and sit, looking down at Dirk, curled in sheets on the floor, his hands shoved beneath his pillow. The fingers of moonlight that scatter across the boy's sleeping body turn his skin pale as seafoam and stars. 

When AR slides to the ground, sits on his knees beside Dirk, he can feel that coolant system that Dirk did so well with working, it flutters beneath the leather of his body and the silicone of his face in the gentle facade of a pulse, he has completely neglected to pretend he's breathing, statue still as he looks down upon his creator's face and reminisces on a conversation that feels a million years in the past about how watching people sleep is creepy rather than endearing, he can't seem to help himself however, can't seem to help how his eyes trace Dirk's features, from his eyelashes like white-gold filigree, to his mouth, lips slightly parted in sleep, the pale pink of them brings to mind one of the many-fingered branches of coral he had glimpsed beneath the waves not too long ago.

Dirk would be softer though, he imagines, could _know_ if he dared.  
A hand reaches through the midnight dark, fingers that would tremble were they filled with muscle rather than electronics curling slightly as if to give delicate touch, one which never comes.

Instead, he jumps slightly when one of Dirk's own hands snaps up—gently up—to grasp the android's own, and between the filigree lashes, he can suddenly see neon bright lines of orange, the expression is not wary or upset, but is laced delicately with the sort of exhaustion one ironically feels the most upon just having woken up.  
For a long moment, all is still, all is silent save for the sea, the reticent whispers of the waves bring to mind some outside audience, a sort of hushed wonder as to what the universe will do next.

Slowly, AR's wrist is released, Dirk turning to lay upon his back rather than his side, observing the android with eyes that are more curious now than tired.

”I'm s-”

It is not a word from Dirk that draws him back into blessed silence, but rather, a look, questioning almost, which softens soon back into something almost like neutrality, a look, and a movement, the fingers around AR's wrist loosen but do not release, rather, they shift to bring AR's hand to the boy's coral-light lips, which brush across the silicone of the android's knuckles and reveal to AR that, yes, they are as soft as they had looked, chapped only slightly by the wild seaside air. 

Dirk's hand falls silently then to rest upon the ground, it does not take but a second for AR to move, tracing the tips of his fingers across the boy's lower lip, across his far cheek, and then down the soft cascade of his jaw. When his touches glide tentatively lower, over the delicate arc of Dirk's throat, he notes the human's pulse, like a fluttering bird just beneath the skin, finds himself lingering there with no small amount of wonder churning in his mechanical chest, no small amount of _how_ really, _how does any living thing keep going on the fluttering pulse of something so small as the flutter of a pulse?_

The night is interrupted by movement once more, AR shifting, tentative like some fluid, wild animal as he shifts a leg over Dirk's sheet-covered hips to straddle, weight supported entirely upon his own knees, as if after all these years of wind and rain and heartache and survival, it is the weight of thin metal and wire and leather that will finally break the man beneath him. 

His hands are slow but tireless, memorizing Dirk's skin, moving down over his throat in a way that leaves tension winding up Dirk's spine for a sparse moment, he has never learned to trust, he is learning now, in the way he does not speak despite the stiffness, despite the back of his head worry that perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, maybe, if he wanted to, AR could simply wrap his hands around that throat and leave him gasping, desperate, breathless, _dead_. 

But that action never comes, rather, it is the soft brush of a hand further down, pulling aside the worn strap of the black tank-top Dirk wears to better seek the line of his clavicle, to trace the bone beneath the skin down to the dip of his collar-bone. When he finds it, when he traces it with the softest pressure, Dirk shivers, his eyes closing. In that moment, he is the most peaceful AR has ever seen him while awake, the line of his usually furrowed brow smoothed out, lips parted in a sigh, calm, like the sea between the inevitable storms.

He does not realize he has gone still to watch Dirk's face until those sun-bright eyes are upon him again. Sun bright. He thinks of Homer's hymns, of songs to Apollo, he thinks if Dirk had Been then, they would have thought him some golden eyed god or son-of such.

“Say something” Dirk's voice is a trembling whisper in the dark, but AR cannot think of anything, he is caught upon his own scrambling mind, of philosophers and hymns and Apollo and Dirk.

“Anything” comes the request, less a plea, more a question.  
”How shall I sing of you who are in all ways worthy of singing?” because it is all he can think to say, beneath his hands he can feel the playful flutter of Dirk's heart, the way his chest shifts in unheard laughter.

“Do not quote homer at me now.”

”What would you have me do instead?”

There comes no answer, but perhaps the question was not one meant to _be_ answered, for Dirk's eyes have closed once more less in thought than in repose, though he seems no less aware of AR's movements when the android leans over him, silicone hands upon the pillow, looking down, leaning down.

”I would like to kiss you.”

There is no breath when AR speaks, no shifting of air to give away just how close they really are, so close that when Dirk nods, a soft bob of his head, their noses nearly brush. Close enough that when AR closes that last infinitesimal bit of distance to let their lips touch, Dirk nearly jumps for the lack of time to prepare.  
AR is soft.

Soft mouth, soft hair that Dirk raises a hand to run his fingers through, soft leather between the false blades of his shoulders where the other hand settles. Soft in the whirring of machinery and coolant beneath that false excuse for skin.

When they part, and Dirk is breathless, his heart hammering like a frightened animal against the cage of his ribs, AR is still soft, leaving kisses across the line of his jaw, the curve of his throat.

For the first time since before Dirk can remember, all he knows is a softness he did not realize he was lacking.  
A gentleness that, until now, he did not realize he missed.


	21. Love Me Like I'm Not Made Of Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a war inside my core  
> I hear it fight, I hear it roar  
> Go ahead, go ahead   
> Lay your head where it burns.
> 
> \--
> 
> You have all been so exceedingly patient with me, and for that, I have to thank all of you.  
> I'm going to really try hard to make 2017 the year when I can mark Be the Ocean as complete. I don't know how many of the original readers are still here, but this is my new year's resolution; I am going to do this for you, who have been here every step of the way. And to my new readers, and those that will read when this is long complete, I am going to do this for you, who come after the end and keep this writing alive.
> 
> Onwards.

And from the curve of his throat; further.

The synthetic nature of AR's mouth is never truly hidden, the softness too smooth and free of imperfections to ever be mistaken with chapped human lips, hair that is fine, and too soft when Dirk lifts a hand to tangle his fingers in the strands he might describe in colour as _snowlike_ if Dirk had ever himself set eyes on snow, but such things fly over him, and his descriptions are different.  
 _like bleached bone_ he thinks instead, _like driftwood_ wandering thoughts that are scattered as swiftly as a surprised flock of gulls from the surface of the ocean when he finds his own lips parting in a sound he half recognizes from nights spent trembling above the sheets either with Jake's name on his lips or, more often than not, simply mindless and free of faces or names. Half recognizes because the shuddering sigh, the half-a-moan he gives at the feeling of AR nipping softly at the flesh just above the collar of his shirt. 

When he glances downwards, he is met with the android's in-turn upwards lilting gaze.

”You're okay.” comes the sentence, not questioning, a statement based on logic, it was not a hard bite, and AR fancies that, despite not technically having a human body, he can well enough say with some certainty that a little graze of teeth will not hurt Dirk Strider.

“Am I?” the response comes, and then, with some mocking degree of certainty follows, “I am” spoken like God, I am who I am, who pulls life from the void that the world has become, who cobbled together a person with their own two hands. What makes a god a god? Belief? In general or in oneself? Certainly Dirk had enough of both to fit such a requirement. Power? Who in all the watery grave of the planet had more power now than he? Who had survived despite all odds.

Or was it, perhaps, worship?

AR slips down further, straddling his legs, knees against the ground to either side of skin in a kneeling facade nearly fit to mimic prayer, hands sliding up under his creator's shirt with the same sort of reverence one might reserve for a rosary in prayer, and perhaps Dirk was as if God to him, give and take, creator who had at one point nearly tossed him beneath the waves in some forty day and forty night facade of flood.

Dirk was no god.   
Everything he had been or would be had in the end come from the sea, as all things do really. Haec aqua bendita sit nobis salus et vita. 

Dirk notes, with one part amusement and one part grateful sigh, that AR's hands are actually slightly cooler than the surrounding air, must be the coolant system hard at work, if he closes his eyes, he can just hear it beneath the outside crash of the ocean. A sound he almost loses himself in even as his shirt is further inched upwards, his back arching to make removing it simpler in a motion that would perhaps have been graceful if not for the obvious lack of practice, both of them, clumsy and new, like gulls learning how to use their wings, AR can't help but laugh when the shirt catches awkwardly at an arm and Dirk has to sit up to fumble it off, looking at his not-quite-doppelganger with a sort of still sleepy attempt at annoyance that he finds he can't really muster up right now.

When Dirk kisses the line of AR's jaw, it's one part reciprocation and one part fascination, can AR feel it really? What's in this for the android anyway? He finds his hands drifting over the other's hips, but doesn't bother to sink between slender-crafted legs, there's nothing to find, AR is as pretty as a doll, and built like one anyway. Instead, his touches glide upwards, over his companion's chest, fingers clever despite the lingering sleep-slowness. It takes AR a moment to realize what Dirk is looking for, and when he does, his own hands move to grasp the man's wrist, head tilted down to watch his creator's too-warm fingers curl against his chest where the panel into power source and important systems sits hidden.

”What are we doing?” AR's voice is as delicate as a wartime ceasefire, and perhaps just as dangerous. Dirk's breath is hot below the android's ear when his eventual reply comes.  
“Nothing”

”Like the nothingness of space?”

Dirk's smile can be felt, curling where lips are pressed into synthetic flesh.  
“Like the void of space.” he agrees, shivering when AR's free hand moves up so he can slide fingers up the back of Dirk's neck to stroke through his hair.

”And out of this void comes everything. And you are it.”

“We” the correction is stern but gentle. 

”We.” is the agreement. The quiet, heavy air of the room cracked, but not broken, by Dirk's soft laughter as he pops open the panel in AR's chest, the android's hand pulling away from his creator's wrist to allow him to do so.

“No one needs this much bullshit pretentiousness during sex.”

”Is that what we're doing?”

Dirk doesn't respond, just slides his fingers into the android's chest, carefully ignoring the lead box where his power source lies hidden away, instead, he eases aside wires, movements that make AR tense with something like anxiety. And every time he does, Dirk stills, waits for him to relax, and then continues. It does not take long anyway for him to find what he's looking for, and when his fingers coax gently along the raw sensors of artificial nerves, AR cries out with some feeling he cannot put a word to, hands scrabbling desperately first at the ground, then nothing, and then at Dirk, at his shoulders, his back. There's doubt as to whether he can even feel Dirk's lips at his throat past the literal electricity racing through his body. He hadn't even thought about his position on Dirk's lap until now, until the second touch brings his legs wrapping about Dirk's hips for no reason other than stability.

He's not panting—he doesn't need to breathe—in fact, he has ceased pretending to breath entirely, it's a little eerie for Dirk to feel, but he does not request that AR do so, judging by the unfocused way the android is staring into space, how the dark camera lenses that could be mistaken for pupils widen and contract in dizzied distance when his fingers caress another 'nerve', he doubts AR could even hear him either way.

Still, he moves, lets himself find AR's mouth with his own once more as if to swallow the strangled cries and gasps and definitively lewd moans and other like sounds that spill from AR's lips every time he touches just the right spots, and, in some cases, even when he shifts his own hips up, he may not be any more sensitive below the waist than anywhere else, but extra stimulation anywhere is enough to send the mechanics of his body whirring right now, even Dirk's lips, his mouth, hot and wet, his teeth, almost too hard against the delicate synthetic flesh of AR's lower lip, these are enough to set him practically wriggling under Dirk's touches, sometimes, he does, and Dirk himself can't help but hum appreciatively, he's glad this is working—he has no idea what he's doing. Neither does AR, but it's working out, as things tend to do, fingers against wiring, AR pushing down against Dirk's hips, AR may not need to breathe, but Dirk does, inhale, exhale, they come in panting little breaths at first, and then, on occasion, harder gasps. 

”T-Too much, s-s-don't”

And his fingers still, and then, slowly as to not brush anything on accident, recede. He can feel AR trembling even as he closes the worn-out android's chest panel once again, and despite the aching of his own cock beneath the fabric of his boxers, he takes the moments that stretch out before him of AR coming down from his sensitivity high to press close, to hide his face against the soft curvature of AR's throat. To feel the steady, quick rush of coolant moving to core systems. To turn his head and lay kisses against porcelain pale 'skin'. By the time AR has stopped trembling like a bird caught in a storm, Dirk isn't even really aroused, the heat under his skin has ebbed away like the tide, leaving him more able to concentrate, to push away the haze at the edge of his brain.  
He can feel fingers tracing down the curvature of his spine, how AR's fingers twitch and slide against the bones which press upwards against hot skin, delicate, fascinated, AR has no such ridges and imperfections in his own design. How ridiculous humans were, in all their internal angles and twists, how overly complex was the flutter of a heart, that a simple mistimed rhythm could bring it all crashing down again.

In this moment, Dirk feels so small to the android who holds him close now, so delicate, fleeting; the word Ephemeral comes to mind.

Like a storm, here one moment, gone the next.

AR does not tremble at this realization, he has too much control over his body. Dirk will never know the scattered emotions of that moment, in a thousand years, when even the calcium in his bones is returned once more to the sea, perhaps AR will look back, and wonder why he never said anything. 

'What will I do when you're gone?'

The same thing Dirk did before AR was created perhaps. 

Simply try to survive.


End file.
